


The Spaces Between

by Arcadian90



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Being in love is harder, Falling in love is hard, M/M, POV Dorian Pavus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 69,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22601728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcadian90/pseuds/Arcadian90
Summary: "Stumbling steps where the wall used to be." A series of shorts exploring the evolving relationship between Dorian and the Inquisitor. A little sex, a little humour, all the feels. Sliding gradually into A/U.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 164
Kudos: 200





	1. The hunter

"You should be careful, Lord Pavus." He steps out from between the trees, silent as a shadow. How does he do that? "It isn't safe to wander alone at night. These woods are full of dangerous creatures."

Dorian flicks his wrist, dismissing the defensive spell he'd called to his fingertips. Not that it would have done him any good against this one. When the elf wanted someone dead, he never even showed himself. "I'd wager there's nothing in these woods half as dangerous as you."

A smile in the darkness. "Let's hope not, at any rate."

"Are you stalking me? A hunter after a spot of game?" Dorian's tone is arch, confident, convincingly masking the pleasant hammering in his chest. It's a familiar rhythm for them by now, this coy banter. For Dorian, it's a well-worn shield; for the Inquisitor, he suspects, a welcome relief from the painfully solemn treatment he receives from everyone else.

"You strike me as someone who enjoys being hunted."

"How observant of you." Dorian doesn't move. He lets the Inquisitor come to him, admiring the way the elf's lithe form moves through the undergrowth. _The grace of a deer_ , he thinks – until he sees the look in the other man's eye. It has rather more of the wolf, and Dorian's heart beats a little faster. Would he dare? Out here, where someone might happen upon them at any moment? Then again, why not? He'd kissed Dorian in the library, in full view of anyone who cared to look. Weeks ago now, and nothing since, apart from a bit of flirting. Not that he's trying to be a tease. He simply has a hundred more important things to attend to. Killing archdemons, repairing holes in the sky, so on and so forth. Still, the waiting is torture. If it were anyone else, Dorian would have taken the initiative. Cornered him and made his own desires plain. But this is the Herald of Andraste, the great holy hope of the south. Dorian has to tread carefully, for both their sakes. Let the Inquisitor come to him.

And now he has. In the dark, in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, silver hair shining in the moonlight, mischievous little grin hitching one corner of his full mouth. Even in the shadows, those blue-green eyes seem lit from within. He's almost too pretty, and if that were all there was to it – beauty, grace, the chaste perfection the devoted masses see when they look at him – Dorian would be content to admire from afar, as one admires a statue, or a lovely strain of music. But Inquisitor Lavellan isn't nearly as pure as his followers imagine. There's a vein of colour in that pristine white marble, if you know where to look. A few flakes of salt on that otherwise sweet dessert. Like a naughty little secret just waiting to be discovered, and that – that was the crossbow bolt that took Dorian down. And now here he stands in the woods, keeping still as if afraid to spook a wild animal, like a fair maiden waiting for a unicorn, and in this moment he honestly couldn't say which of them is the hunter and which the prey. Self-control has never come naturally to Dorian, but it's positively excruciating now. All he wants is to grab a handful of leather, find out if those buckles are as complicated as they look. He's close enough to touch now, but still Dorian doesn't move…

…until the elf leans into him, and Dorian lets out the breath he's been holding, sighing into the kiss as a bright arc of desire flares through his body. He's been longing for this for weeks, imagining it in every shade and shape, but nothing comes close to the real thing. The soft glide of his tongue, the gentle pressure of his fingertips on the back of Dorian's neck, the stolen breaths between each caress of the lips. Sweet at first, and then hungry, until Dorian is backing him into a tree and the elf is clutching at him and his blood is in such a torrent he can feel the magic stirring inside him, swirling like embers threatening to catch flame.

They break off in the same instant, breathless and smiling but already drawing apart. It's a stolen moment and they both know it.

Not a second too soon, either – Dorian hears the crackle of approaching footsteps. The elf melts back into the shadows, still smiling, lips just a bit redder now from the force of Dorian's kiss.

"Who's there?"

Dorian doesn't recognize the voice. One of the scouts, obviously. "The mage," he says, congratulating himself on how indifferent he sounds.

"Everything all right, ser?"

"Everything is delightful, unless you count the fact that I'm relieving myself in the woods like a savage."

The scout wisely decides not to come any closer. "Is the Inquisitor with you? Lady Cassandra is looking for him."

"My dear fellow, urination may be a group activity for you southerners, but for civilized folk, it's a private affair."

"Sorry, ser. I'll, er, leave you to it, then."

"Why, thank you."

Dorian holds his breath, listening, but aside from the scout blundering his way back to camp, there's no sound. He waits a moment longer, half hoping the elf will return, but of course he doesn't. It was risky to come in the first place. The Inquisitor may have a naughty streak, but he's no fool. Whatever is growing between them, this isn't the time or place to let it run riot.

He would have sworn he took the quickest route back to camp, but by the time he gets there, the Inquisitor is already deep in conversation with Cassandra, arms folded, nodding solemnly as he promises to do everything he can about whatever problem she's just dropped in his lap. He means it, too. The concern in his eyes is so genuine that Cassandra smiles – actually smiles! – grateful for his steadfast support. He looks chaste again, pale as marble, every inch the holy Herald. Then his glance strays across the camp, finds Dorian. Heat kindles in those blue-green eyes, and a hint of colour touches his cheeks, as if he can't quite believe his own daring. He doesn't regret it, though; a tiny, secret smile curls the edge of his mouth. Barely perceptible, but unmistakable, if you know what to look for.

Crossbow bolt, straight to the heart.


	2. Full disclosure

Dorian sips his wine, his glance roaming unabashedly over the Inquisitor's naked form. The elf is stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head, perfectly unselfconscious beneath Dorian's gaze. As well he should be. Pointless to feign modesty when you look that good.

Even so, Dorian's been staring long enough that the elf lifts an eyebrow inquiringly. "Something on your mind?"

"You're still a bit flushed. I daresay you enjoyed yourself."

He laughs. "Feeling smug, are we?"

"Of course I am, and deservedly so. But that's not what I was thinking." Dorian pauses to top up his glass before reclining back into the sofa. "I'm curious about something. What you said earlier. _I thought you'd never ask._ Am I to understand you've been waiting for this to happen?"

The elf hoists himself into a sitting position, giving Dorian his full attention. "Does that surprise you?"

"That you wanted it to happen? No. That you left it to me… It does, a little. You're not a man who lacks initiative."

"Neither are you."

"Ah, but I was making an exception in your case. Or trying to, at any rate. Luckily for both of us, discipline isn't my strong suit. If it were, you wouldn't be glowing that adorable shade of pink, and I wouldn't be enjoying a decent wine, which you've apparently been hoarding for yourself this entire time. I'd be pining for you, you'd be pining for me, both of us twisting ourselves into knots of sexual frustration until I set something on fire and you stabbed it."

"We do that every day."

"Yes, but we'd do it _more_ , and to things that didn't really deserve it. Nugs. Fennecs. Random peasants."

"What are you getting at, Dorian?"

A fair question. He's not entirely sure why he brought it up, except for some vague, nagging feeling that it matters somehow.

"I wasn't playing games, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, that wouldn't be like you, would it? But I do wonder – why make me come to you?"

"Because…" The elf frowns and straightens abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and avoiding Dorian's gaze. "Because I needed to be sure this was something you wanted as much as I did."

"You can't be serious. Have I not made myself clear?"

But he is serious, very much so, and visibly uncomfortable. "I suppose, but that doesn't necessarily mean… Lately, people have a disturbing habit of telling me what I want to hear. Of going along with whatever I suggest, because I'm in charge. I didn't want you to feel…" He trails off, shaking his head.

"Wait." Dorian sets his wine down. " _You_ were concerned about taking advantage of _me_?" The irony is too much for him; he can't help laughing. "Aren't we a pair. Scrupulously keeping our hands off one another, going mad with frustration because we think it's what we ought to do. It just goes to show that it doesn't pay to have principles."

"You joke, but it was too important to be careless with it. I didn't want to put you in a difficult position, especially after I got off to such a poor start."

Dorian tilts his head. "What do you mean, a poor start?"

"When I kissed you in the library. I shouldn't have done that. You were raw and upset about your father, and I just…"

"But I wanted you to."

"Still…" He shakes his head again. "I shouldn't have done it. And then, after I gave you the amulet, you said you felt indebted. As if you owed me something. I didn't want you to owe me this."

Dorian doesn't know what to say. He had no idea the elf felt this way, but it explains a great deal. "That's why you wouldn't answer," he says, the realization dawning on him even as he speaks. "Earlier, when I asked where you saw this going between us. You put it on me instead."

"I didn't want you to feel pressured by my answer."

 _Sweet Maker, could I adore this man any more?_ Dorian rises from the sofa, pads across the ghastly Antivan rug and pushes the elf back onto the bed. "Then let me be clear, my dear Inquisitor. You can put me in any position you like, any time you like. And as for pressure…" He grips the other man's hip. "The more the better, frankly."

The elf smiles, but a wisp of anxiety lingers in his eyes. "Good to know."

 _You can do better than that, Dorian._ "In earnest," he says, dropping the teasing tone. "I meant everything I said earlier. I'm here because I want to be. Very much."

The relief in those blue-green eyes plucks at his heart. "Good to know," the elf says again, and this time, his smile lights up the room.


	3. Apology

The Inquisitor yanks a dagger from his belt and flicks his wrist; in the same instant, Dorian slings a hissing column of frost. The blade reaches its target half a heartbeat before the ice, sinking deep, but not deep enough. The ice slows but doesn't kill, and it takes another sweep of Blackwall's sword to finish the job. The bandit falls to his knees with a gurgle before pitching onto his face, and the road is quiet once again.

"Our timing is still off," Dorian observes. He starts to make a bedroom joke out of it, until he catches the look in the elf's eye. Someone's in a _mood_. Thankfully, they're not far from camp. Dorian's had enough stink-eye for one afternoon, and he'd quite like to curl up in his tent with a book.

They reach camp and he heads down to the river for a wash. It's _freezing_ , of course, so he contents himself with the bare minimum. Even so, he's shivering by the time he's done, cursing himself for a fool for not bringing a bucket. At least then he could have warmed some water with magic. _Bloody camping._ He's still terrible at it, after all this time. It'll be the wilderness, not demons or darkspawn, that gets him in the end. He'll freeze to death, or drown, or contract some horrid disease. Or his tent will collapse on him in the middle of the night, and that will be the end of the Inquisitor's pet mage. He imagines the letter to his family. _We regret to inform you that Dorian was eaten by a fennec. Please find enclosed the Pavus birthright and this box of consolatory chocolates._

"Dorian."

He nearly leaps out of his skin. " _Vishante kaffas._ Would it kill you to let a fellow hear you coming once in a while?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. But I did want a moment in private."

Dorian turns, and there it is again – the stink-eye. "Is this where you let me have it, then? Very well, get on with it. The suspense is killing me. What have I done to offend?"

"When I told you I didn't care that tongues were wagging about us, I never expected one of the tongues to be yours."

It takes Dorian a moment to work out what he's referring to. "Ah," he says with a sinking feeling. "What I said to Blackwall, you mean." He'd offered to draw diagrams, as he recalls. It seemed wittier at the time.

"Let them talk if they like, but I won't have our relationship wielded like a cudgel in your squabbles with Blackwall."

"You're right, of course. I apologize." Dorian inclines his head solemnly. Then, putting on his most charming smile, he purrs, "I'll make it up to you."

It's a miscalculation. The elf purses his lips in displeasure and glances away.

"You're properly angry, aren't you?" Dorian sighs. "You've every right to be. It was childish of me, and disrespectful. He does get under my skin, the great hairy oaf, but it's no excuse. Please forgive me." He reaches out tentatively, offering a chaste kiss in apology. The elf doesn't pull away, but his posture stays closed, arms folded over his chest.

"I'm not angry, I'm…"

 _Hurt_. Dorian sees it in his eyes, and it's like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Further proof, if any were needed, that despite his best efforts, he is falling _madly_ in love with this man.

The elf shifts on his feet. "I'm just surprised. I've never paid much attention to what people say about us. You've always been the careful one."

Dorian would have thought to go to his pyre without ever hearing those words, but now is surely not the time to say so.

"I thought I could trust you to be discreet about our relationship, and instead—"

"Instead, I'm taunting your followers with it, as if it's nothing more than a game, and I'm winning." Dorian sighs again. He knows perfectly well where this weakness comes from, but he's not sure he can explain it. "I'm afraid I don't have much experience being happy. I don't quite know how to process it, so I resort to something I do know, only too well, which is petty flaunting of my triumphs."

The elf doesn't say anything. Dorian would pay good coin to know what he's thinking, but he can't read what's going on in those eyes.

"As I said, there's no excuse. What we have means a great deal to me, and I won't cheapen it again. You have my word."

"Thank you." The elf turns away, and Dorian is afraid he's going to leave it like that, but then he relents, turning back with a frustrated little growl and reaching for Dorian in the same motion. The kiss is fleeting, but Dorian knows he doesn't deserve it, and that makes it all the more poignant. "You are exasperating," the elf whispers against his mouth.

"Yes. But let's be honest, you like it."

The Inquisitor shakes his head, but he can't quite keep the wry smile from his lips, and Dorian seizes the opening, pulling the elf closer and showing him just how much he means everything he's just said.

Of course, part of him secretly hopes Blackwall is watching.


	4. Home

Their laughter floats across the camp, light as the breeze that carries it, every face brighter now that the supplies have been replenished and no one has to fear sleeping in the cold. Dorian can't hear what they're saying, but he wouldn't understand much of it anyway, the way they're slipping in and out of Elven. The tiny snippets of that language he's learned mostly come from overhearing slaves, and he doubts very much any of those phrases would serve him here. That's assuming the Dalish would even speak to him, which they probably wouldn't. They don't have much time for Cassandra, either, or the dwarf, but at least neither of them is _Tevinter_. Even the Dalish, it seems, know enough of the Imperium to hate it.

So Dorian keeps his distance, watching his _amatus_ be with his people, and it's strange and beautiful and it _hurts_. It's as if he's seeing his lover – truly seeing him – for the first time. The Inquisitor has always seemed so poised, so comfortable in his own skin, that it never occurred to Dorian he might feel out of place. But he must have, because look at him now. That easy smile, that relaxed posture, the _relief_ with which he lets the lyrical Elven words flow from his tongue. And this isn't even his clan. These people are strangers to him, and yet he's perfectly at home.

It seems ridiculous now, but until this moment it's never really crossed Dorian's mind how very alien Skyhold must feel to a Dalish elf. Those stained glass windows in the Inquisitor's quarters… He hasn't chosen them because they're pretty. He misses home. Of course he does. Dorian has been homesick since his feet struck southern soil, but at least he recognizes the broad outlines of society here. The institutions, the culture, the economy… Maker, the bloody _buildings_. None of that is the least bit familiar to these elves. To _him._ He's a forest creature trapped in walls of stone, forced to perform miraculous feats before a rapturous audience. And he does it, gracefully, without hesitation. _Like a slave_ , Dorian thinks before he can stop himself, and it's a physical pain in his chest.

"A copper for your thoughts." Varric props himself on the same sun-drenched stone Dorian is leaning against for warmth.

"My thoughts are worth far more than a copper," Dorian replies distractedly. "I doubt you could afford them."

"Suit yourself. I just thought you might want to talk, seeing how you're over here by yourself, making puppy-dog eyes at our dear leader."

"I am not." Dorian is perfectly aware that he is.

"All right." The dwarf straightens as if to go, but he must have heard Dorian's soft sigh, because he says, "Come on, Sparkler, let it out. You'll feel better. I promise not to tell." Still Dorian hesitates, so Varric, storyteller that he is, starts filling in the blanks for himself. "Let me guess. You're looking at all these Dalish elves doing elfy things and thinking, I'm not a part of that and never will be. I wouldn't fit in here any better than he'd fit in Minrathous."

"Something like that."

"Two lovers, worlds apart. It's a classic."

"Just look at him, Varric. How relaxed he is. How free."

"Sure. These are his people. And it helps that they're looking at him like a person and not the Chosen of Andraste. That's gotta be a relief."

"It's not that I don't understand it. But to see the difference in him, how dramatic it is… It shows you how much he's keeping to himself, doesn't it? He's been torn up by the roots from everything he's ever known, but until now I never gave it a moment's thought." Too busy penning his own tragedy, apparently. All that whinging about his father and leaving his family behind… How selfish he must have sounded. How selfish he'd been. The elf had listened, comforted him, called him brave. Never said a word about his own pain. Of course he hadn't.

"People need strength from him right now," Varric says. "Vulnerability is for flesh-and-blood people, not saviours."

"Exactly. It's _heartbreaking_. What does it cost him, I wonder?"

"All I know is, it would cost him a lot more if he didn't have you. You might be the only thing in his life right now that's just for him."

Sweet Maker, what a terrifying thought. And a tragic one. "I don't know if I can be that for him, Varric," Dorian says softly. "I want to be, but when it's all said and done, I'm a decadent mage from Tevinter, and he's…" He gestures vaguely at the Dalish, at their campfire and their aravels and the halla grazing placidly all around them.

"It's… a striking contrast, I'll give you that."

"It's preposterous, is what it is."

"Look at it this way, Sparkler. Chances are neither of you will survive long enough for it to be an issue."

Dorian laughs hollowly. "There is that."

"My advice? Leave the future for later. Right now, the world needs him, and he needs you." He pats Dorian's arm. "No pressure," he says, and walks away.

Their chat has drawn the Inquisitor's eye. He excuses himself from the Dalish and comes over, looking happy and refreshed. "Are you all right?" he asks. "Why don't you join us?"

Silly man. He knows perfectly well why. He's just being polite, as usual. "I'm fine where I am, thank you. Though a little wine wouldn't go awry." Dorian keeps his tone light. He doesn't want to put a damper on the elf's good mood.

"Dalish don't drink wine."

Dorian blinks in surprise, though of course that makes sense. "You do."

"Since I met you."

"But that bottle in your quarters…"

He smiles, a little mischievously. "I knew you'd come by eventually. I wanted to be prepared."

"You kept wine in your quarters for _me_." Dorian nods at his feet. "Of course you did."

The elf tilts his head, his smile fading. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Dorian's voice is husky. "I just want very badly to kiss you, that's all."

"I... don't recommend that. Not here. I'm sorry."

"Oh, I know. The moment I touched you, I'd have a dozen angry Dalish leaping at me with pointy objects."

"This isn't my clan. They wouldn't understand."

 _As though your clan would understand it any better._ Dorian forces a smile and waves him off. "Go. Enjoy yourself. I've got a book."

"Thank you." He pauses, glancing around. "Have you seen Cole?"

"I'm sure he's lurking about somewhere nearby, don't worry."

The elf heads back to the Dalish, and soon he's smiling again, telling a story that has the whole camp in gales of laughter. Dorian watches, leaning against his stone with his arms folded, and he's hardly surprised when the spirit materializes at his side.

"It hurts," Cole says.

"Yes."

"Not falling but fallen, too late to turn back, it will never work, _h_ _e's going to break my heart._ "

Dorian sighs. "Always a pleasure to have you poking about my head."

"I think I understand now."

Dorian knows he's going to regret it, but he asks anyway. "What do you understand, Cole?"

"Sometimes, love isn't enough."

Dorian swallows hard, then wanders off to find his tent and a book.


	5. The dragon in the room

Dorian bumps into Josephine on her way down the stairs. And here he'd just been congratulating himself on having slipped unseen into the Inquisitor's quarters. He pastes on his customary smirk, doing his best to appear unconcerned. "How go the dancing lessons? Is our dear Inquisitor doing his homework?"

She smiles, visibly pleased. "He is a surprisingly quick study, actually. He'll be able to hold his own by the time of the ball, I'm certain."

There's nothing surprising about it, in Dorian's view. Aside from being graceful as a gazelle, the elf is an adorably earnest student. Dorian has spent countless evenings admiring the studious little crease he gets between his eyebrows when he reads. "Down to your able tutelage, no doubt," he says with a little bow.

Josephine's smile turns wry. "You'll do very well at the Winter Palace, Dorian. Your flattery has the perfect soupcon of deliberate insincerity."

"Thank you. It's taken years to perfect."

Dorian resists the urge to scrutinize her features as they pass each other on the stairs. She's a professional diplomat, after all, and besides – she doesn't strike Dorian as the type to judge his relationship with the Inquisitor, so long as they maintain at least a semblance of decorum.

He walks into an empty room, or so it seems, and he turns full about, puzzled. Then he spies a flash of blue silk out the window. The Inquisitor stands on the balcony, eyes closed, face angled up to the sky. The wind toys with his silver-blond hair, and his narrow chest rises and falls with deep, deliberate breaths, as if he's drinking it in. Dorian hesitates. Whatever this is, he doesn't want to intrude.

"Are you going to stand there all afternoon, or do I get a kiss?" The elf doesn't even open his eyes to say it.

Dorian needs no further encouragement. They haven't had a moment alone together since returning to Skyhold, and he strides onto the balcony and takes that lovely face in his hands. "I didn't want to interrupt," he murmurs between kisses. "You looked so peaceful. It would make an exquisite statue." The elf laughs and lets himself be folded into Dorian's arms, both of them gazing out over the mountains. It's terribly romantic for about five seconds, until gooseflesh erupts along the bare skin of Dorian's shoulder. "What are you doing out here? It's freezing."

The elf sighs. "I needed some air. I get… cramped… in there sometimes. As if I can feel the walls closing in around me." He shivers in Dorian's arms. Or is it a shudder? "Especially lately. All this business about Halamshiral…" His shoulders quiver again, and it's definitely a shudder.

"Dreading it, I imagine?"

"You can't know," he whispers. And just like that, Dorian's mind is back in the Dales, watching his forest creature breathe – truly _breathe_ – for the first time, and it hurts all over again.

He's never asked his lover anything about his people. Not because he wasn't curious, but because he was terrified of tripping over the sleeping dragon in the room. He'd made some blundering remark shortly after they met, about how he hoped "it" wouldn't be an issue between them. As though his country's ugly history… no, its ugly _present_ … with the elves could be reduced to a single, inoffensive word. _It._ _That._ _The whole slavery thing._ He's still terrified of waking that dragon, but it's selfish, and it keeps a distance between them that he finds he can no longer tolerate.

And so, with a flutter of nervousness, he says, "May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"May I ask you something _inside_ , before we both turn into the world's most fetching ice sculpture?"

The elf laughs and leads him to the sofa. "You really are a hothouse orchid, aren't you?"

"I've always preferred to think of myself as a lily. Lovely, but toxic."

"Dorian." He shakes his head in that half-pitying, half-exasperated way he does whenever Dorian is self-deprecating. "Wine?"

"If you insist." He watches the Inquisitor pour, grateful for the few moments it gives him to collect his thoughts. The alcohol will help settle the nerves, too, or so he hopes.

"All right." The elf alights onto the sofa and hands Dorian a glass. "Ask away."

Dorian stalls a little longer, swirling his wine. "Our time among the Dalish. It's got me thinking. When it comes right down to it, I actually know very little about you."

Blue-green eyes search Dorian's, wary but curious. "Do you mean the Dalish, or me specifically?"

"I suppose the latter requires at least something of the former, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does." Still that wary tone, though Dorian can hardly blame him. "What would you like to know?"

Dorian isn't sure where to begin. Then he scans his lover's face, and the answer is right in front of him. "Perhaps we might start with this." Cupping the side of the elf's face, he brushes a thumb across his cheekbone, not quite touching the pair of vines twined gracefully over his left eye. "What does it mean?"

"The vallaslin?" He smiles. "I was wondering when you would ask. I'm surprised it's taken you this long."

Dorian winces. "I'm a terrible man, aren't I? It's not that I didn't—"

"It's all right, Dorian. I understand." He turns his face into Dorian's hand, kissing his palm. "It's a way of honouring the gods. My vallaslin honours Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper."

"Sylaise." Dorian rolls it on his tongue like fine brandy, savouring this new intimacy. "Tell me about her."

"It's said she taught the people fire, and healing. She's seen as a protector of the vulnerable."

"Did you choose that for yourself? To honour her specifically, I mean."

The elf smiles. "That depends who you ask. My keeper would tell you she persuaded me. At the time, it didn't feel like I had much of a choice."

Dorian finds himself smiling too. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen, and I thought I knew everything. I wanted to honour Andruil, the Huntress. But my keeper insisted that Sylaise was the better choice for the man I would become. _The world is full of hunters_ , she said. _Protectors are rare._ "

"I think she was exactly right." Dorian hadn't meant to blurt it out. It's terribly presumptuous of him, but the elf just smiles.

"I've come around, I think."

"And the colour? I didn't see anything nearly as vibrant on the others."

"Ah. That." He laughs, actually flushing a little in embarrassment. "A bit of sixteen year-old rebellion, I'm afraid. If I wasn't to choose my own design, I at least wanted it to look good."

"So you chose a colour that brings out the green of your eyes." It's so fitting Dorian can hardly stand it. The vallaslin perfectly represents who he is. A protector, however reluctantly, but one with a rebellious streak. _There's a vein of colour in that pristine white marble_ , Dorian had thought to himself once, and the markings are a physical representation of that.

"Awfully vain of me, I know." Still with that embarrassed smile.

"Vanity, from you? My dear Inquisitor, I am shocked. Also, I adore this tale." Impulsively, Dorian leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the elf's left eye. "I adore you," he whispers. It feels dangerously close to what he really wants to say, but if his lover senses that, it doesn't bother him. They stay like that for a moment, foreheads pressed together, Dorian cradling the back of the elf's head in one hand while he keeps his wine out of peril with the other. It feels beautiful and true in a way he's never tasted before, and he's in danger of being quite overcome.

"We should talk more," the elf murmurs. Then, sweeping the glass from Dorian's hand and setting it aside, he adds, "Later." He fixes his mouth against Dorian's and pushes him back onto the sofa, and the rest of Dorian's questions fly out the window, joining Leliana's birds on the wind.


	6. Thunderbolt

Dorian reaches climax with a gasp, clawing at the bedclothes with both hands as fire roars through his veins – literally, if he's not careful, but he has just enough capacity for higher thought that he keeps the magic in check, his whole body rigid as his lover reaches the same precipice. A hitched breath on the back of his neck, a whispered word in Elven, and they both tumble over the edge, ecstasy pouring out of them in ragged waves until they're spent. The body curved against his, taut as a drawn bow, goes slack, and they collapse together. Teeth rake gently across Dorian's shoulder as they both catch their breath. He adores those nips. The idea that he provokes such primal desire in the holy Herald of Andraste gets him halfway there all on its own.

The elf rolls away and Dorian turns onto his side, eying the sun slanting through the Dalish windows. Is it too early for brandy? Probably, he decides. It wouldn't be the first time he'd indulged before noon, but you have to draw the line somewhere, and a stolen morning of bedroom play when he ought to be researching new defensive spells is enough of an indulgence for one day.

He must have dozed off briefly, but he stirs when soft lips brush the skin between his shoulder blades. "Dorian."

" _Mmm?_ "

"I love you."

Just like that. A thunderbolt from the clear blue, no warning at all. Dorian lies there stunned, trying to muster a response.

"You don't need to say anything." The voice in his ear is calm, as if he's prepared for this. Which makes one of them. "I just wanted you to know."

Just wanted him to know? Oh, by the way? As if Dorian neglected to do up one of his buckles, or had spinach in his teeth? Something very like panic rises in his breast. _You don't_ , he wants to say. _You can't._ Dorian is a port in a storm. A pleasant dalliance. That's all. It has to be all. Losing something is hard enough when you never truly had it to begin with. To actually hold something this precious in your hands, knowing it's eventually going to be taken from you… And he does know, with crushing certainty, that this will be taken from him. That _he_ will be taken from him, one way or another. That's how the story ends. It's how it was always going to end.

"I've never felt this way before," the elf goes on mercilessly, "and I thought it was important to say so while we had the chance. You never know what tomorrow holds."

"You're awfully sentimental for an assassin." It's a reflex and he hates himself for it, but the elf takes it in stride.

"Maybe. Or maybe I just appreciate the value of what we have. You're not just what I _want_ , Dorian. You're exactly what I need."

"Really? You need a sarcastic but undeniably well-dressed mage?"

He's ready for that, too, the clever bastard. "A well-dressed mage is handy for any occasion. But you're something much rarer. Someone with a good heart, a cynical mind, and the courage to face the inevitable heartache that combination brings. A wounded romantic. A disappointed idealist, too proud and too stubborn to give into defeat. Someone who sees the blow coming but takes it anyway, because you have to fight for what's in your heart." He presses a kiss to the back of Dorian's neck. "Wear your armour for as long as you need, _vhen'an_. Just know that I see you."

The words steal Dorian's breath, and very nearly his composure as well. He blinks stinging eyes, then turns over, meeting that serene blue-green gaze. "Perhaps you do at that," he whispers. It's not enough, not nearly, but it's all he can manage. His heart is so full it's in his throat. And then they're kissing – not the fierce passion of a few minutes ago, but soft and deep and lingering, full of unspoken promises. Dorian twines his fingers in the elf's hair, rolls him onto his back and trails kisses down his throat, tasting the sweat of their lovemaking on that perfect white skin. It's all very tender and sweet… until it isn't, momentum inevitably taking over, his hands and lips roaming until the other man's breath starts to come faster. Surely he can't be ready again so soon? But he is, already wakening beneath Dorian's touch, and Dorian finds his own body answering.

_I love you._

He's felt it for ages, so why can't he say it? He needs to find a way, and soon, before one or both of them meets a messy but glorious end in some backwater bog. For now, he lets his body speak for him. It is awfully eloquent, judging from the way his lover's features are beginning to twist in sweet agony beneath him. Dorian takes his time. Good things shouldn't be rushed. _Be patient with me,_ amatus. _I'll make it up to you._

The elf gasps, throws his head back, calls out Dorian's name. And for now, at least, it's enough.


	7. Aftermath

"What, pray tell, was _that_?" Dorian slams the bladed tip of his staff into the ground, leaving it quivering where it stands, and stalks over to the Inquisitor, who is currently pinching his nose, head tipped to the sky, as blood gushes over his mouth and chin.

"There are a lot of answers I could go with here," the elf replies ruefully. "Mostly, it was unfortunate."

"Whereas I'd have said _reckless_. _Cavalier. Too cheeky by half._ "

"Too slow by half, anyway," Iron Bull puts in, slinging his maul over his shoulder. "That guy really rang your bell, boss."

"Thank you, Bull."

Dorian pries the elf's hand away and brings a handkerchief to his face. It's embroidered silk, far too expensive for this sort of treatment, but it's all he has. "Tip your head forward, not back. All you're doing is drinking your own stupidity."

The elf cuts him a look above the handkerchief, but it's mostly amused. "You're taking this well. It's just a bit of blood, Dorian."

"It's a broken nose, is what it is." He takes a peek behind the handkerchief and tuts in dismay. "I'm afraid I don't know what this will do to our relationship. That perfect nose was an important part of the package."

Again, the Iron Bull butts his horns in. "A good war wound is hot. _Pretty_ is all well and good, but a broken nose, or the mark of a blade... that shows that the person you're bedding is badass."

"Presumably that fascinating philosophy explains why you Qunari prance about half naked while people are trying to stab you, but alas, not everyone shares it. Dare I ask if you still have all your teeth, Inquisitor?" It's meant to be sarcasm, and Dorian is not a little alarmed when the elf actually checks, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth.

"I think so," he reports, nasally.

Dorian mutters under his breath in Tevene. "This was bound to happen, you know. You can only tempt fate so often." He's been picturing this very result ever since he first saw the elf pull that move. It's a delightfully dirty trick, when it works. Slight as he is, clad only in leather armour, the Inquisitor makes a tempting target, and he uses that to his advantage. He'll goad a heavily-armoured warrior into charging him, wait for the clod to commit himself, and then dive away at the last moment, flanking his enemy and taking him from behind. One of the participants in this little dance is guaranteed to come out looking like an ass – and today, it wasn't the enemy. Their fearless leader is only lucky he took a shield to the face rather than a blade.

"Can't you…" The elf waves vaguely in the direction of Dorian's staff, still standing like a pike a few feet away.

"What? Wiggle my fingers and make your boo-boo go away? I'm not that kind of mage, Inquisitor." His tone is still waspish, an after-effect of the bolt of terror that lanced through him a minute ago, when he was certain the elf was about to be skewered. The taste of it is still acrid on his tongue, like the burning scent after a lightning strike.

Varric glances up from fiddling with his contraption. "Quit mothering him, Sparkler, he'll be fine. There's an inn just up the road. We can get him cleaned up there."

Half a bottle of cheap wine later, the Qunari hunkers over the Inquisitor, who grits his teeth, grips the edges of the table, and draws a deep breath.

"Ready?" Bull rumbles.

The elf gives a curt nod, and Dorian looks away just in time. The sound alone is almost enough to make him retch, and it's followed by a yelp of pain so sharp that every head in the place turns. But when Dorian looks back, the nose is at least straight again. Tears stream down the Inquisitor's face, but he's nodding, as if to say, _better_. Dorian does his part, freezing a fistful of beans in a wet cloth before passing it over. The elf presses the compress to his face with a groan, and now there's nothing to do but drink.

"I'm having a bath," Dorian announces to no one in particular, and heads off to arrange it. He does need a wash, but mostly, he needs a moment. He's not pleased with himself for how he's handling this, and he needs to recalibrate. Hopefully, some hot water and a few glasses of wine will sort him out.

By the time he heads back down to the common room, it's packed to the rafters with locals. Bull is dozing by the fireplace with his head propped against the wall; from this angle, he looks like some ghastly hunting trophy mounted above the hearth. Varric and the Inquisitor are nowhere to be seen, but when Dorian heads back up to the guest rooms, he hears familiar voices through a half-closed door.

"…actually think it's going to heal up just fine," Varric is saying. "And I know a thing or two about broken noses."

"Dorian will be pleased, at any rate."

Varric chuckles. "He sure had his smallclothes in a twist, didn't he? Any idea what brought that on? It's not exactly the first time you've taken a hit out there."

"I have a pretty good idea, yes."

Dorian freezes in the act of reaching for the door.

"The other day…" The elf hesitates only a moment. "I told him I loved him."

The dwarf whistles softly. "Big step. How'd he react?"

"About how you'd expect. With a steaming pot of sass."

Varric laughs. "That's our Sparkler."

Dorian can't decide if he's angry or not. On the one hand, this is _extremely_ private. Then again, hadn't he bared his own heart to Varric only a couple of weeks ago? Everyone needs someone to talk to, he supposes, and it's either the dwarf or the hunting trophy snoring downstairs.

"I caught him off guard, that's all. He needs time to…"

"Absorb it."

"Exactly."

If only it were that simple. But Dorian can't imagine a future, imminent or otherwise, in which he doesn't freeze with dread every time his lover flings himself into a melee. In which he doesn't pace the library like a caged animal whenever the Inquisitor goes anywhere without him, even if it's just Val Royeaux. Is that something you can ever get used to? Dorian supposes he'll find out, whether he likes it or not. In the meantime, he can hardly allow the elf to be the only one who puts on a brave face. And so…

He pushes the door open and strides into the room. "All right, let's see it."

The elf is perched on the edge of the bed. He glances up and tries to smile, but it's _hideous_. Two black eyes, a split lip, and an extremely swollen, sad little nose.

Dorian sighs.

"Come on," Varric says. "Let's head back down. I'm starving."

Dorian shakes his head. "No, no, this won't do. You can't walk around looking like that, you'll frighten the children. No one wants to see the Herald of Andraste beaten into paste. Bad for morale, you know."

"What do you suggest?"

Dorian grabs the nearest helm and tosses it in his lap. "If you're careful, you can probably manage to work a utensil through the slats. But if you have trouble, let me know, and I'll be happy to spoon-feed you."

The elf snorts out a laugh – and then grimaces in pain.

"Come along, Inquisitor," Dorian says, turning for the door. "I'll freeze you some more beans."


	8. The gift

"It's beautiful." Dorian rubs the silk between thumb and forefinger, feeling the delicacy of the enchantment woven into each gossamer thread. It's as fine as anything from Tevinter, the sort of armour a high-profile magister might wear when he was keen to impress. Dorian is always keen to impress, even if his main audience consists of peasants and goats.

"You haven't even seen the best part." There's a _chink_ of metal as the Inquisitor flips the armour over on the bed, and there it is: Dorian's serpent, the Tevinter serpent, which he’d rather defiantly sported the day they met. It climbs gracefully up the back of the cloak, fangs bared at the left shoulder, its dark silhouette a striking contrast against the pale silver background. The reptilian motif is picked up in the gloves, which are obviously made of dragon scale – _dragon scale!_ – and along the hemline. It's a masterwork, and everything about it – the upturned collar, the jaunty cut, the rich jeweled tones of the Highever weave accents – is exactly to Dorian's taste. Either he's exceedingly predictable, or the elf knows him very well indeed.

"What is this metal?" Dorian touches the flame-coloured pauldrons. They're almost iridescent, molten reds and oranges bleeding into one another, coordinating beautifully with the Highever weave.

"Dragon bone enamel." There's more than a hint of pride in the Inquisitor's voice.

Sweet Andraste, what would _that_ cost on the open market? As far as Dorian knows, the Archon himself doesn't swan about in _dragon bone_. "I don't know what to say. It's magnificent, but are you not concerned it might look like…"

"Favouritism?" The elf sighs. "A little. Hopefully, Cassandra's new armour, and Bull's, will help deflect some of that criticism. Perhaps one day, we'll have the resources to outfit everyone equally, but until then, the best equipment should go to the team that's out there the most, and that means you, Cassandra, and Bull. Also…" His mouth curves into a cheeky little smile. "We're the ones who fought the dragon."

"I take it Cassandra and Bull have a little taste of dragon in their new toys as well?" Dorian laughs. "You really are sentimental, aren't you?"

He shrugs. "Dalish hunters often carry a trophy from their proudest kill."

"I trust that means you kept one for yourself?"

A boyish gleam lights the elf's eye, and he leads Dorian to the massive closet at the back of the room, where a brand new set of dragon scale leathers are draped over a clotheshorse.

" _Hmm_." Dorian eyes the familiar jeweled tones with a smirk. "Trimmed with Highever weave, I see. Now that _is_ sentimental."

The elf blushes adorably. "Is it too much?"

"That we're dangerously close to matching?" Dorian hitches a shoulder. "Honestly, do you care?"

He laughs. "Not really, no."

"I confess I'm surprised," Dorian says as they head for the sofa and a glass of wine. "You have excellent taste for a man who grew up in the woods. The Dalish don't seem…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully lest he sound horribly elitist. "They don't seem overly concerned with the frivolities of fashion. Understandably."

"True, but I've already admitted to being terribly vain for a Dalish."

 _Terribly vain for a Dalish_ is rather like _terribly tall for a dwarf_ , but it would probably be rude to say so. Dorian pours two glasses of wine and settles onto the sofa. "Is that why you always smell so good?"

The elf splutters laughingly into his wine. "I'm sorry?"

"Proper hygiene is exceedingly difficult to maintain in the field, at least for me. If I'm honest, I would have expected the Dalish to be less than fastidious about it, out of necessity if nothing else."

"I'm so pleased we've reached this stage in our relationship, Dorian."

"You should be. It's important. I have a very sensitive nose, Inquisitor. It would be terribly off-putting if you smelled like an unwashed stable boy, as most southerners do. Instead, you smell like…" He pauses, searching for a way to describe it.

"Like this?" The elf rises and fetches something from his wardrobe, a ceramic jar filled with some kind of lotion. Dorian removes the stopper and inhales, and his stomach does a pleasant little flutter as the elf's scent fills his nose.

"Yes, exactly. Like a subtle whiff of pine needles and fresh air. What is it, and wherever did you get it?"

"I make it. You're right about the pine. And there's oil from the bark of an ironwood tree, and a few other things. Dalish hunters use lotions like these to mask their scent so they can get closer to the game. It's handy for sneaking up on people, too, and…" He shrugs self-consciously. "It's familiar. There's something about smell that calls up memories, and this helps me feel a little more at home."

"And it keeps your skin so soft and supple."

He laughs. "That too."

"Is this secret recipe known to all the Dalish?"

"Not exactly. Every hunter mixes their own, according to their taste and what they think works best."

"So this is your unique scent." Dorian takes another deep draught. "You could market this, you know. Not in Orlais, perhaps - it lacks the sickly sweet floral notes they seem to prefer - but I daresay it would do very well in Tevinter."

Blue-green eyes meet his, and there's something in them he can't quite read. The elf slides closer, taking the jar and dipping his fingers inside. He reaches for Dorian, fingertips ghosting along his neck, just below his ear. First one side, then the other, all the way down to the collarbone, his gaze lingering over his work like a painter considering his canvas. Gooseflesh prickles along Dorian's skin, and a delicious shiver runs down his spine. The elf leans in, tucking his face into Dorian's neck and breathing deeply.

"Do I meet with your approval now?" Dorian's voice is a little wobbly.

"You always meet with my approval." Drawing another deep breath, he adds, "I'm making a memory."

Dorian's heart floods. It's too much.

The elf sighs and pulls away. "Trying to, anyway, but I still can't smell a thing." He touches his swollen nose and winces.

Dorian laughs, and it would be so easy to leave it there. To take the out he's been given, let this moment slip past, as he has so many others. But he can't do it anymore. _You owe him this. This, and so much more._ He takes the elf's face in his hands and eases him onto his back. "You know that I adore you," he whispers, kissing him gently. "More than that, I…"

He hesitates just long enough for the elf to anticipate him. "Dorian, you don't have to—"

"I love you. You must know that." He kisses one bruised eye, then the other. He kisses his forehead and his mouth. "I love you. Of course I do." It's such a relief to finally let go that it's all he can do not to say it over and over. The elf pulls him close and kisses him back - breathless, overcome, totally unabashed in his joy, and it's _too much_. Dorian feels the prick of tears behind his eyes. "You bloody bastard," he whispers shakily. "We're both going to regret this, you know."

The elf ignores that, kissing Dorian's face all over. They twine together on the sofa, Dorian resting his head on the Inquisitor's chest. He can hear the elf's heart hammering against his ribs, the tremor of emotion in his breath, and it's the most beautiful music he's ever heard. He closes his eyes, listening as it gradually slows to a steady drumbeat, a soft, regular sigh.

Dorian falls asleep with the scent of pine in his nose.


	9. Costume ball

Dorian is a tad tipsy by the time they reach the villa. A little surprising, considering the modest quantity of wine he's consumed – at least by his standards. At least he's not outright drunk, which is more than can be said for some. The mood is decidedly celebratory after the Inquisitor's triumph at the Winter Palace, and Commander Cullen has had his hands full herding their increasingly unruly delegation back to the villa. Now he's trying to convince them to go to bed, which is a waste of effort. Varric has already uncorked something expensive, Sera and the Qunari are rearranging the furniture, and Blackwall has announced, somewhat alarmingly, that he saw a lute lying around somewhere. Meanwhile, Cole appears to be engaged in earnest conversation with a goldfish, which may or may not have anything to do with the brandy Dorian gave him earlier.

It would all be very entertaining were it not for the tug of melancholy weighing him down. It's partly the disappointment of being banished to the nursery with the other children instead of spending the night at Halamshiral with the adults. Despite the impressive dimensions of the Winter Palace, there simply wasn't room to accommodate all the visiting dignitaries. Of the Inquisition delegation, only the Inquisitor himself, his ambassador, and his spymaster will be enjoying Halamshiral's legendary guest suites tonight.

But it's not the palace Dorian is truly longing for. After everything that happened at the ball, he ought to be at his lover's side. The elf spent the entire night performing for the crowd, wearing his Inquisitor mask, literally dancing to their music – when he wasn't busy tripping over the corpses of his own people, which they'd found strewn across the grounds like so much discarded trash. Afterwards, when Dorian found him on the balcony, the elf was restless as a tiger, furious and exhausted and exhilarated all at once, and he'd surprised Dorian by whispering some _very_ naughty things in his ear. Things that would be exceedingly difficult to accomplish at a distance of several miles. When informed of the sleeping arrangements, the Inquisitor had done his best to convince Josephine to let him spend the night with the rest of them at the villa – solidarity, morale, et cetera – but the ambassador was having none of it. Mustn't offend the empress.

So it is with considerable surprise that Dorian looks up to find the Inquisitor striding into the room, trailed by a distressed-looking Josephine and – unless Dorian is much mistaken – a rather _amused_ Leliana.

"Inquisitor!" Varric raises his glass in salute. "Shouldn't you be snuggled up in a wyvern down bed by now?"

"The guest suites were in… rather a state, unfortunately," Josephine says with a tight smile. "It seems the Venatori were quite thorough in their despoiling of the Winter Palace."

Cullen frowns. "What do you mean?"

"There were bodies everywhere," Leliana says lightly, as if she's remarking on a decorating choice. _Did you see the chandeliers? And the flowers were lovely. Went a little overboard with the corpses, though, if you ask me._ "In the Inquisitor's suite, especially. Three dead mercenaries. Quite a mess. The Venatori must have been tying up loose ends."

Dorian meets his lover's eye. "Those nasty Venatori. How disappointing for you, Inquisitor."

The elf holds his gaze, all innocence. "The empress was very apologetic, but we assured her we would be perfectly comfortable at the villa. And now if you'll excuse me, it's been a rather long night. Good night, everyone, and good work."

Dorian waits a respectable interval before heading for his own room. He leaves the door unlocked, and his lover doesn't keep him waiting long, slipping through silently and locking it behind him.

"Fancy meeting you here." Dorian stays where he is, lying on the bed with his arms folded behind his head, a perfect study in insouciance. He's only sorry it's too dark for the elf to see his smirk. "Tell me, did you enlist the help of your spymaster in this enterprise, or did you drag the bodies to your room all by yourself?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, my dear Inquisitor, that there wasn't a single corpse on that entire floor when we did our sweep. I applaud your ingenuity, though I do wish you'd found a slightly less macabre way of engineering this romantic rendezvous."

"Dorian. Stop talking."

He hears the _clink_ of a belt being taken off, and that gets him on his feet quickly enough. "Oh, no you don't. I've been waiting to do this all night." The elf raises his hands in surrender as Dorian starts tugging at the Inquisitorial attire. He wonders how many Orlesian courtiers fantasized about doing this very thing tonight, and feels more than a little smug. He takes his time unwrapping his prize, blue satin gliding through his fingers, one brass button after another slipping free. The elf watches him in silence, hungry and impatient, which of course makes Dorian want to draw it out even more.

The sex is everything Dorian anticipated, fierce and unrestrained and laced with angst, and when it's over, the elf seems almost embarrassed by how thoroughly he let himself go. At one point, Dorian had been obliged to lay a warning hand over his lover's mouth, reminding him to be quiet. He'd been bitten. It was glorious.

"Safe to say you had a few things to work out," Dorian observes.

"Safe to say you didn't mind."

"True enough. We ought to subject you to courtly intrigue more often."

The elf shudders beside him.

"Oh, now, don't be dramatic. You did brilliantly tonight. You outplayed them all, as if you'd been born to it." The poise with which he'd dealt with the duchess, in particular, was magnificent to behold.

"I know you mean that as a compliment…"

Dorian rolls onto his side, sensing a serious turn in the conversation. The elf's profile is sketched in shadow, impossible to read. "But?"

"But I wasn't born to it, was I? My upbringing is about as far from this"—his glance drifts across the gilt ceiling—"as it could possibly be. But tonight… what Briala said, about me slumming it with my own people for once…"

"She was trying to get under your skin."

"I know, but she's not wrong. The truth is, I'm so far from where I started… What if I can never find my way back?" He turns over to face Dorian, blue-green eyes painfully earnest. "What if I don't _want_ to?"

"You're afraid you're changing."

"I know I'm changing. I just don't know if it's for the better. As awful as things were tonight, there were moments when I actually…"

"Enjoyed it?"

"No, not that. But there was a rush… It was like hunting dangerous game. The thrill of making the perfect shot that brings it down, right before it's about to kill you."

"That's not so bad, is it?"

"Isn't it? We were practically tripping over warm bodies, most of them elves, and I just… kept going."

"You didn't have a choice. Time was not on our side."

He's barely listening. "And then, after we'd dealt with Florianne… I held the fate of the entire Orlesian Empire in my hands, and do you know what it felt like? Chess. _Chess_ , Dorian." His gaze strays to the bloodred jacket lying rumpled on the floor. "The longer I wear the costume, the more I become it. The more I become like _them_."

Dorian has a sudden, absurd impulse to bundle the elf up and whisk him off into the night, to free this beautiful creature from captivity before it's too late. Maker's breath, when did he become so sentimental? He reaches over and takes his lover's hand. "You could never become them," he says. "It's not in your nature."

"You can't know that."

"But I can, you see. We vipers always recognize one of our own. It's a survival instinct. We can spot each other from a hundred paces. And you, my dear Inquisitor, are no viper."

The elf sighs. "Dorian. Neither are you."

"Perhaps not yet, but it's not for lack of training. Fortunately, I've been too busy debauching myself to really put my nose to the grindstone."

The elf eyes him in the darkness. "I can't tell if you're joking."

"Not as much as I would like," Dorian says quietly. "In Tevinter, such training is a matter of survival, at least if you're of noble blood. It's not always formal, of course. More often, it's simply something you absorb. The way I was raised… Let's just say the Grand Game seems rather dull by comparison."

The elf threads his fingers through Dorian's. "That might be how you were raised, but it's not who you are."

Dorian laughs ruefully. "Listen to us. Opposite sides of the same coin. You want to stay true to your upbringing, and I want to get as far away from mine as possible. Suppose we make a pact, you and I. To keep each other from slipping in either direction. To hold each other right here." His fingers tighten around the elf's. "Because I quite like us just where we are."

"It's a deal," the elf says, and kisses him. Dorian feels some of the tension go out of his lover's shoulders, and they fall asleep in each other's arms.

Which is terribly unwise, because the next thing Dorian knows it's morning, and there are voices in the hallway. There's no way the Inquisitor can slip away without being seen. Josephine is going to _murder_ them.

"I'll go out the window," the elf announces as he pulls his boots on.

"What?" Dorian half splutters, half laughs. "Don't be absurd. It's a twenty foot drop. No one wants to have to tell the world that the Inquisitor broke his neck climbing out of his scandalous lover's window."

"I'll be fine."

"Suppose you do survive. What then? You were just taking a turn about the garden?"

"Exactly." And before Dorian can stop him, the bloody elf has flung himself out the bloody window, like some pirate captain lover in an Antivan romance. By the time Dorian looks out, he's back on his feet, covered in grass stains and grinning up at the window like a teenager who just got away with something.

Dorian shakes his head, sighing. This man is going to _ruin_ him.

And it will be worth it.


	10. The price

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to leave a comment or kudos. I really appreciate it!

The Qunari ruins the ambush, snagging his horns on a branch and alerting a nearby sentry. The scout dies before he can give the alarm, brought down by one of the Inquisitor's daggers, but it's too late: The commotion has drawn the attention of the guard at the gate, and it's on.

Dorian counts four rushing out of the gate and three more on the ramparts, plus however many are still holed up inside. He takes a heartbeat to situate each of them, and then he unleashes his power, targeting the nearest guard. Frost tingles along his fingers as he draws on the Fade, first pulling, then pushing until a layer of ice bristles over the man's armour, slowing his movements. Bull can take it from there; Dorian's attention is needed elsewhere. The Inquisitor and Cole are both locked in one-on-one battles, leaving them open to the archers on the ramparts. Dorian closes his eyes briefly, mutters a word, and sets the wooden palisades on fire. _That_ certainly gets everyone's attention, and now a great brute of a knight comes lumbering out of the gate, trailed by a pair of flunkies.

They're closing fast. Dorian fans his fingertips, letting the energy build; it crackles between his fingers in a delicate web. He weaves the threads together, and with a gesture, sends a flash of lightning sizzling toward the flunkies. It strikes one and arcs to the other, leaving them gasping and twitching. They're easy prey after that, and the rogues are on them like wolves. Six dead on the ground now, and the smell of roasted flesh from the ramparts. That leaves only the man they came here to kill, the lumbering chevalier with the greatsword. He charges the Inquisitor, winding up for a blow that will scythe through the elf like ripe wheat if it lands.

Which it almost certainly won't. The elf is far too quick, at least most of the time. The Qunari is there, and Cole too. But Dorian isn't taking any chances. He slams his staff into the ground and _pulls_ once more, compressing, shaping, the air glittering with frost as the spell coalesces around the charging chevalier. Bull throws himself into a counter-charge, readying his maul as the enemy's armour begins to cloud over with ice. Even now, Dorian doesn't spare the power, gritting his teeth with exertion as he binds it into a burning vortex of cold. By the time the Qunari's blow falls, the chevalier is as brittle as porcelain, and he explodes into tiny sparkling shards of _fuck you_.

There's a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the cheerful trill of birdsong. Dorian tilts his head, considering the pile of ice crystals at their feet. "Who was this again?"

Bull snorts out a laugh. He assumes Dorian is joking. The Inquisitor, meanwhile, eyes him through the slats of his helm.

"You're fast today, Dorian," Cole says brightly.

"Somebody put his shit-kicking boots on this morning," the Qunari agrees, giving Dorian's shoulder an appreciative thump that sends him staggering.

"Yes, it's amazing what a little concentration will do." Dorian leans on his staff as a wave of light-headedness washes over him. "You might consider trying it next time we're attempting to sneak up on someone."

"You'd better sit," the Inquisitor says, gesturing at one of the massive tree roots sprawled behind them. "You're exhausted."

"I'm fine."

" _Sit_. Bull, you and Cole do a sweep inside the fort. Make sure there are no surprises."

"You got it, boss."

The elf waits until the others are out of earshot. Dorian can't see much of his face, but there's no mistaking the wry curve of his mouth beneath the helm. "Do you ever actually listen to the briefings?"

"It depends what I had for breakfast."

"You have no idea who that was, do you?" The elf gestures at the melting bits of chevalier.

"Does it matter? He was trying to kill you. Now he's a cool, refreshing meal for the local wildlife."

"I appreciate that, but it wasn't necessary. The three of us had it well in hand."

"Forgive me, but I have no intention of trusting your fate to a spirit that talks to goldfish and a man who can't keep his own horns from becoming tangled in the shrubbery."

"Dorian." The elf sighs. "This can't go on. I know you want to protect me, but I can't have you using three spells when one will do. You'll burn yourself out, and then you'll be no good to anyone."

"Nonsense. I'll still look dashing."

"Hard to look dashing when we're dragging you back to camp on a litter because you're too exhausted to stand."

"Oh, I don't know. I rather fancy being borne about on a palanquin. I'll eat grapes and wave to the commoners."

The Inquisitor yanks off his helmet and gives Dorian an exasperated look, and for a moment Dorian is transported back to that day in Redcliffe, in the chantry, when he'd laid eyes on the fabled Herald of Andraste for the first time. He'd been exhausted then too, completely spent, beating the demons back with his inert staff like some squire practicing with a polearm. The Inquisition arrived just in the nick of time, routing the demons and sealing the rift, leaving Dorian to catch his breath and quietly congratulate himself on still being alive. A pair of arresting blue-green eyes assessed him from behind a mask of steel. Then the Herald lifted his helmet free, and Dorian lost his breath all over again. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn't the most beautiful man he'd ever seen, and it snatched the carefully prepared speech right off his tongue. Then, of course, he'd done what he always did when flustered, which was to become an obnoxious caricature of himself. The Herald was not amused.

"Are you even listening to me?" The Inquisitor is not amused.

"Were you talking? I'm sorry, I was distracted."

"Dorian…"

He levers himself up with his staff and meets the elf's eye, serious now. "You listen to me, Inquisitor, and listen well. I am your loyal servant, and I will follow your orders in all things – except this. Out here, I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, whether you like it or not. That is the price."

The elf knits his brow. "The price?"

"For my heart, you stupid man! You cannot ask me to love you and then expect me to risk losing you."

The Inquisitor stares at him, a confounding brew of emotions churning behind his eyes. He starts to say something and stops. Then he stabs a finger at the still-sparkling pile of metal and meat. "His name was _Aurelien_ ," he growls, and stalks off to find the others.


	11. Breadcrumbs

"I'm sorry, he _what_?" Dorian freezes in the act of pulling a book from the shelf, ramming it back into place with enough force to startle a raven on the railing. It rustles from its perch, scolding him loudly as it rises to Leliana's rookery above.

" _Shh._ " The Inquisitor throws a glance over his shoulder, as if he expects to find Solas standing right behind him. "This tower echoes."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you came to me with this little tale," Dorian snaps, before lowering his voice to a hiss. "How did you expect I would react? You stroll up here, casual as you please, and tell me that Solas invaded your dreams?"

The elf shifts uncomfortably. "When you put it like that…"

"How else shall I put it?"

"We met in the Fade."

Dorian scowls. "Let's take that apart, shall we? First of all, you didn't just _meet_. That's like saying you bumped into your stalker at the public baths. _Why, fancy meeting you here! What are the odds? I do like your towel – is that Avvar cotton?_ "

"I don't think it's quite like—"

"Second, the Fade isn't the local tavern. You weren't there physically. Whether Solas came to you or somehow brought you to him, this took place _inside your head_. Your most private inner sanctum, and he just barges in without permission and changes the scenery, like some creepy decorator you didn't hire? What you're describing is an incredible violation." Dorian is so angry he could spit. He _should_ spit, right over the railing, plant it like a fried egg on the apostate's shiny bald head. He's also impressed, and just a little bit jealous, neither of which he would admit at the point of a blade. "Did he tell you how he did it?"

The elf shakes his head and drops into the velvet armchair. He looks tired, as well he might – eyes bleary, silver hair askew. "He made it sound as if it was my doing. He called it _visiting_ him."

"As if he were an ailing grandmother," Dorian says in a biting singsong. "And he gave you no warning at all? No indication that he was planning this little trip down memory lane?"

"He said…" The elf frowns, trying to remember. "We were supposed to go somewhere to talk. I remember heading up to my quarters, and then…" He shakes his head again. "I'm not sure what happened after that."

Oh, this just keeps getting better. Now the hairless hobo is taking the Inquisitor up to his bedchamber before it all fades to black.

The elf rubs his eyes. "What I don't understand is _why_ he did it. What was the point?"

"Perhaps he was trying to get into your trousers, Inquisitor."

His lover snorts, but then he glances up in alarm. "Wait – you _are_ joking?"

Dorian isn't entirely sure himself. "I don't care why he did it. It was completely inappropriate, and you should tell him so."

"Because we get along so well already."

"Apparently he thinks you do, or he wouldn't be dream-napping you." Dorian paces as much as his little alcove in the library permits. "Why do you bother with him, anyway? He's arrogant and condescending and completely contemptuous of your people. And yet you indulge him. Tell me about your journeys, Solas. You're so _interesting_ , Solas. You know, I never really thought about it that way, _thank you_ , Solas."

His lover gives him a sour look. "I don't sound like that."

"You do, actually. And it's not just a question of making nice with your comrades, or you'd be cozying up to Vivienne, too, which you very noticeably are not."

The Inquisitor throws a glance in the direction of Vivienne's balcony. "Solas may be unpleasant at times, but Vivienne is…"

"Evil."

"I wouldn't go that far, but I don't entirely trust her."

"Nor should you. A complexion that lustrous can only be achieved by eating babies. But that's not what we're talking about. Why do you take such an interest in Solas, when you clearly don't enjoy his company?"

"He knows a great deal about elven history."

"Does he? I wonder. He claims to have gained this vastly superior knowledge by journeying the Fade, but the Fade isn't a reference library. It's a chamber of echoes, distorted and half heard. One doesn't see truth in the Fade; one sees a version of it, or several, some of them conflicting. Solas dismisses Dalish history as mangled stories of the ancient elves, but how are the stories he's glimpsed in the Fade any less mangled? Warped by spirits, perhaps, instead of mortal men, but warped nonetheless."

The Inquisitor shrugs. "I've had similar questions, but his perspectives are still useful for my…" He lets the sentence die, as if he regrets starting it in the first place.

"Your what?" Dorian prompts.

"Nothing." The elf shifts in his seat and glances out the window. "Just some research I'm doing."

Dorian narrows his eyes. His lover spends a great deal of time with his nose in books, studying history, arcane knowledge – anything he thinks might be of use to the Inquisition. He's never been self-conscious about it before. On the contrary, they've passed many pleasant hours together in silence, reading. So why the sudden awkwardness? "Something you'd like to share?"

"It's not important," the elf says, but his pale skin betrays him, flushing noticeably beneath the vallaslin.

There is _no way_ Dorian is letting it go now. He folds his arms and props himself against the window, one eyebrow lifted.

"It's just… something I'm working on. For a while now. Since before all this, actually, and…" The adorable creature is blushing all the way to the points of his ears. "Solas brings a perspective that I haven't come across before, and I want to be as objective as possible, even if I'm Dalish, so that when people read it – humans, especially – they won't dismiss it as propaganda. History is only ever stories, after all, but at least if you give due consideration to different versions—"

He's so flustered now that he's babbling. It's magnificent.

"Am I to understand that you're writing a history of the Dalish?" Sweet Maker, it's like stumbling across a glittering pile of treasure. Dorian can't decide what delights him more: that his lover is so bookish, or that he's so embarrassed by it.

"I'm… thinking about it."

"You're more than thinking about it, clearly. Does this masterwork exist? Is there a manuscript somewhere?"

The elf squirms.

"There is, isn't there?" Oh, this is too delicious. "And you intend that it be read by _humans_?"

The teasing tone pricks his lover's pride. He scowls up at Dorian. "If our peoples are ever going to be reconciled, they need to understand one another. That starts with breaking down the ridiculous myths the shem…" He stops himself, takes a breath. "The myths humans have about elven culture."

 _Every time I think I couldn't possibly adore this man any more…_ "That's why you were chosen, isn't it? To spy on the Conclave? Because you showed an interest in the wider picture."

He sighs and nods. "My keeper encouraged the project, but I kept it quiet. Many of the others wouldn't approve. Even my sister doesn't know."

An unpleasant thought occurs to Dorian. "Does Solas know?"

His lover sees right through that, and he smirks. "No, Dorian, he doesn't. You're the only person at Skyhold who does, and I'd quite like to keep it that way."

"Fair enough." Dorian hesitates. Then, a little tentatively: "May I read it?"

"Someday, maybe. But not yet. It's not ready for…" He smiles shyly. "Not yet."

The Inquisitor heads off to pursue his Inquisitorial duties - and, Dorian suspects, to bring a quick end to the conversation - and after he's gone, Dorian spends some time perusing the shelves, looking for anything on the Dalish. He's not surprised by how little he finds – and none of it, of course, is actually penned by a Dalish. If his lover manages to finish his opus, it will be an important contribution to history, and Dorian feels a flare of pride. There's a fond little smile on his face as he picks up the heel of bread leftover from his breakfast and tears off a few chunks. It's still there as he lays a trail of breadcrumbs along the railing overlooking the floor below, and it widens as Leliana's ravens spot the treat and start to flutter down to peck at it.

One of them, Dorian figures, will eventually take a shit. And with a little luck, it will land on Solas.


	12. Summerday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In haste at an airport, but it’s VALENTINE’S DAY and this story is a romance, after all, so I figured a little fluff was in order. Happy Valentine’s everyone!

The elf is up to something.

For weeks now, he’s been stealing off on his own, taking every opportunity to vanish from camp when he thinks no one is looking. Sometimes, he’s gone for a few minutes; other times, it’s an hour or more. At first, Dorian assumed it was an _elf thing_. Hunting, gathering, feeding fawns and song birds by hand – whatever it is the Dalish do when there are no humans about. And indeed, the Inquisitor nearly always returns laden with herbs, and even, on one memorable occasion, a rather large buck – the killing, dressing, and transporting of which apparently constituted an impressive display of Manliness, judging from the brutish grunts of approval from Blackwall and Iron Bull.

But there’s more to it than that. There has to be, or the elf wouldn’t be so coy about it. He never says a word before he disappears, and when he gets back, he evades their questions about where he’s been or why he insists on going alone. The others have stopped asking, content to accept this new eccentricity. But Dorian isn’t having it. Not anymore. So tonight, he quietly sets wards around the perimeter of the camp, and when he feels the tingle of one of them being breached, he sets out to follow.

It’s absurd, of course. Dorian couldn’t track a wounded ogre through a field of fresh snow, let alone a Dalish elf who doesn’t want to be found. So he’s hardly surprised when he rounds a corner to find his lover leaning against a tree with his arms folded, blue-green eyes sparkling with amusement.

“You can’t blame a fellow for trying,” Dorian says with a sigh.

“On the contrary, I was counting on it.”

“So this is an ambush, then? I’ve blundered into your cunning trap?” Dorian indulges in a brief but vivid fantasy of what this trap might entail, but they’re not far enough from camp for _that._ “How did you know I would come?”

“A good hunter knows how to bait a snare.”

Dorian’s breath comes a little faster, but he affects his customary nonchalance. “Very well, now that you’ve succeeded, what happens next?”

The elf straightens, the smug look giving way to something more earnest. “Do you know what day it is?”

Dorian pauses. He hadn’t given it much thought, but… “It’s Summerday.” Oh, the parties they would be giving in Minrathous tonight. It makes him homesick to think on it. There would probably be a celebration of some sort at Skyhold too, however subdued. But out here, in the middle of Maker-knows-where, it’s just another Sunday.

“I’ve been reading about Summerday traditions among humans,” the elf says. “They’re quite similar to ours, actually. The coming-of-age rituals, for example. It’s common for Dalish to get their _vallaslin_ on Summerday, or at least to have them begun. It’s also a popular time for couples to become bonded, and…” He takes a step toward Dorian. “And for lovers to exchange gifts.” Reaching into a pouch, he produces a ceramic jar; Dorian recognizes the vessel he uses to keep his pine-scented hunting lotion in.

This is decidedly not what Dorian was expecting from this encounter, but he’s not displeased. On the contrary, he rather likes the idea of wearing the Inquisitor’s scent. _Like an animal marking his territory_ , he thinks. But when he pulls out the stopper and inhales, what fills his nose is not his lover’s distinctive blend of pine and ironwood. It’s something much more exotic, a leathery, spicy fragrance that somehow reminds him of summer nights back home.

“It’s an experiment,” the elf says, a little self-conscious now. “You mentioned that you wanted something like this for when we’re out in the field, and I thought… even if it doesn’t suit you to wear it, maybe it would remind you of Tevinter. I know how homesick you’ve been.”

Dorian glances up. “You crafted this especially for me?”

The elf shifts from foot to foot, his confidence evaporating before Dorian’s eyes. “It’s been trial and error, as I said, and I’m not sure it’s there yet. If you don’t like it…”

“It’s magnificent.” Dorian inhales deeply. “What’s in it?”

The elf gives a nervous laugh. “It’s rather a long list, actually. There’s tobacco and cedar… Musk…”

 _The deer._ Not killed for its meat after all, but for its scent. All this time, his lover has been scouring the forest like an alchemist, searching for just the right ingredients…

“…a type of pepper I’ve never heard of, from Antiva, that Josephine gave me. Some things I had brought in from Tevinter, too, on her advice. A type of citrus, and a spicy flower they call—”

“Jasmine.” _That’s_ what reminds him of summer nights in Tevinter. Dorian takes another deep draught, and he’s wandering the cobbled streets of Minrathous, half drunk on spirits and the decadent pleasures of the grandest city in the world.

“I’ve never tried anything like this before,” the elf says, still stirring restlessly on his feet. “A scent that isn’t designed for hunting, I mean. I really won’t be offended if it’s not to your taste. But I wanted to try, at least. To see if I could come up with something that speaks to who you are. Something complex and erotic and spicy and—”

Dorian stops his mouth with a kiss. He has no words for this, and anyway, he doesn’t want to talk anymore. He wants to feel his lover’s arms around him, to hear the soft breaths between kisses, to smell pine mingled with jasmine and let himself forget, just for a moment, that there is anything dark or imperfect in this world. How can there be, when there is _this_?

“Does this mean you like it?” the elf murmurs.

Dorian resolves to show him just how much, however close to camp they might be.

“What if someone comes along?” It's a half-hearted protest, whispered between kisses.

“Why, then, it will be the perfect opportunity to show you how we celebrate Summerday in my notoriously dissolute homeland.”

It takes a moment for the elf to catch his meaning. He pulls back, his eyes searching Dorian’s. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

Dorian just smiles.


	13. Abelas

The darkspawn just keep coming.

They swarm out of the fissure like termites, rotting, reeking, dripping with black ichor, their bestial screams echoing off the cavern walls. The warriors are keeping them at bay, but they can’t hold out for much longer. Each sweep of Blackwall’s sword is a little lower than the one before, each deflection of Cassandra’s shield half a heartbeat later. The Inquisitor is doing what he can, but his throwing knives are spent, and these cramped quarters aren’t to his advantage. Slowly but surely, the party is being overwhelmed, and soon there’ll be nothing Dorian can do to protect them.

No point in flinging fire or ice, not anymore. He’ll tire too quickly. No time to plan anything clever.

_Need numbers. Need speed. Quickly, now._

He’s casting before he really thinks about it, stripping the vibrations of the Veil down to a thin quiver. Already, he can feel the spirits pressing in close, peering through the shimmer to see what lies beyond. _Life_ , Dorian promises them. _Death. Touch and taste and smell._ He beckons with a thread of magic, and now the boldest of them are pushing through the Veil, grasping at the still-warm corpses of the fallen darkspawn, filling the empty husks and feeling for themselves what it means to _be_ , if only for a moment. In return for this gift, they do Dorian’s bidding, turning their blades on their own kind.

Dorian senses the confusion among his companions as the darkspawn dead begin rising to fight on their behalf. He’s never done anything like this before, not in front of them. This magic is dark and distrusted, and the _mage from Tevinter_ is distrusted enough as it is. Dorian has never even spoken of these powers, and it’s clear that neither Blackwall nor the Inquisitor has seen anything like it before. Only Cassandra seems to understand what’s happening, her lips pressing into a hard line beneath her half-helm as she watches the darkspawn she just killed lurch to its feet to cross blades with one of its own.

“Necromancy,” she says grimly. Dorian knows she’s explaining for the benefit of the others, but it still rings like an accusation, and that stings.

No time to dwell on it. This was triage, a field dressing to stanch the bleeding; the real work begins now. He’s never cast this spell before, at least not outside Alexius’s laboratory, and it will take everything he has. Closing his eyes, Dorian draws his focus inward. He takes a single breath, redirecting all his energy toward it, and then he _stretches_. The temporal field starts in the palm of his hand, no bigger than a soap bubble; he builds it, gradually, _carefully_ , until it’s large enough to swallow them all. “Hurry,” he growls between clenched teeth. “It won’t last.”

He doesn’t explain himself, but he doesn’t have to. They were all at Redcliffe. They’ve seen this sort of temporal distortion before. The darkspawn around them have slowed to a crawl. Even those leaping through the air are suspended, as if time itself has slowed down – which is exactly what’s happened. Dorian holds it for as long as he can, already feeling lightheaded as he leans into his staff, but it’s enough. Enchanted with haste, his companions cut through the enemy with ruthless efficiency. It’s over in moments – at least for them. Maker only knows how long it was for the darkspawn. A breath? A heartbeat? Do darkspawn even have beating hearts? The spirits, meanwhile, have done their part, and Dorian releases them with a flick of his wrist, sending them back to the Fade and leaving the darkspawn corpses to collapse like puppets shorn of their strings. Then he sags over his staff, utterly spent.

A suffocating silence fills the cavern. Dorian can feel the others staring at him, and he knows what he’ll find when he looks up. The Seeker and the Grey Warden will be grim. Fearful, even. So be it. All he cares about is his _amatus_.

So when he looks up and finds that same fear and revulsion in his lover’s eyes, it’s a knife to the gut.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment. Then the elf looks away, and Dorian dies a little inside.

“Thank you, Dorian.” It’s Cassandra who says it. The fucking _templar_. “We would not have survived.” Her voice oozes distaste, but it’s an acknowledgement, at least.

“Not at all,” Dorian says, his lip curling into a sneer. “We do that sort of thing in Tevinter all the time. It’s practically a sport.” He turns and heads for the cavern entrance, not knowing or caring whether anyone follows.

He walks all the way back to camp without turning around. An Inquisition scout hails him at the perimeter, but the greeting dies on his lips when he sees Dorian’s face, and no one else tries to talk to him before he ducks inside his tent.

Dorian is on his second set of push-ups when the tent flap stirs. He debates whether to stop, but he’s out of breath and glistening with sweat, and besides – he knows the elf will just stand there for as long as it takes. “Inquisitor,” he says, shoving himself to his feet and grabbing a towel.

“What are you doing?” The elf’s glance drifts over Dorian’s naked torso in a way he would normally quite enjoy.

“I believe you southerners call it _exercise_. In Tevinter, we usually sculpt our bodies with blood magic, but I’m a little tired after our exertions earlier.” The sarcasm is too biting; it gives him away. But he can’t help it.

“You’re upset.”

“Nonsense. Why should I be upset? I can assure you I’m quite accustomed to southern disgust. A trifle disappointing to see it from _you_ , of course, but I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

“Is that what you think you saw?”

“ _Don’t_.” Dorian's voice is barely above a whisper. “I know what I saw.”

The elf sighs. “Even I don’t know exactly how I felt in that moment, so I’m not sure how you could. But whatever you saw, or think you saw, it obviously hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

Dorian folds his arms. He hopes it looks assertive instead of protective, which is how it feels. “So you weren’t appalled by the magic I performed? The reanimated corpses? The time magic?”

“The corpses were disturbing,” the elf says flatly. “I wish you’d have warned us. But I see the necessity of what you did, and I certainly don’t shed any tears for the dearly departed darkspawn.”

“So it’s the time magic, then?”

“That spell.” The elf blows out a breath, shaking his head. “It’s incredible. It takes our capabilities to a whole new level. It’s also terrifying.”

At least he’s honest.

“After what we saw in Redcliffe… After what you and I went through, surely you can understand why I might feel that way? I thought… I’d _hoped_ that sort of magic disappeared from the world when we defeated Alexius.”

“But now his former apprentice wields it.” Dorian’s eyes are hard, challenging. “That _is_ disturbing.”

The elf stares at him in consternation. “Dorian…”

“Let me ask you this. How do you suppose your own powers appear to the rest of us?” Dorian gestures at his lover’s left hand. Even now, the anchor is still glowing a toxic green from the energy he discharged in the cavern. “Powers which, I feel compelled to add, were bestowed upon you unwittingly, and which you barely understand? At least my powers are the product of careful study. I can control them. But I suppose you’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you? And therein lies the problem, yes? Perhaps if I were an elven apostate, or a Circle mage, but a _Tevinter…_ ”

“No.” The elf takes Dorian’s face in his hands and gazes firmly into his eyes. “Listen to me. I know it’s been hard for you here. I understand, maybe better than anyone, what it’s like to be judged for what you are instead of who you are. Please believe that I don’t see you that way. I love you, Dorian. And I trust you. Your heart, and your judgment. If I’ve given you cause to doubt that, I’m sorry.” He presses a soft kiss to Dorian’s forehead and murmurs something in his own language; Dorian recognizes the Elven word for “sorrow.” _Abelas._ It’s a word they hear often in Tevinter, whispered among the slaves.

 _And therein lies the problem, yes?_ Dorian is self-aware enough to wonder how much of what he saw in the cavern has been refracted through the prism of his own self-doubt. Not that it matters all that much. Whichever of them put it there, it lies between them. The dragon in the room.

“Forgive me, _vhen'an_ ,” the elf whispers in his ear, and it’s like balm on an aching wound. “I told you once that I see you, and that hasn’t changed. It will never change, I swear it.”

Dorian closes his eyes and lets himself believe that, if only for now.


	14. Stormcloud

Dorian is soaked to his smalls. Rather past them, actually. Past his smalls, past his balls, all the way up certain crevices that really rather want to be _dry_ , in the general order of things. His toes squelch in his boots, or what’s left of his boots – his poor Antivan leather, double-stitched, silverite-toed babies, which he’d considered indestructible until they encountered this waterlogged wasteland. _The Storm Coast_ , they call it, with charming southern optimism. _Coasts_ , in Dorian’s experience, are lovely, sheltered places with sparkling blue bays and warm breezes and iced drinks. These ragged cliffs are like the ramparts of some grim fortress, the sort a sensible fellow would fling himself off in despair. As for _storms_ – well, storms pass, don’t they? They don’t hunker down like some battered army digging in for a long siege, settling into all your trenches. This isn’t a storm. It’s not weather at all. It’s a disease, a blight, a miasma of cloud and—

“Dorian.”

Oh, _marvelous._ Just when Dorian thought his morning couldn’t get any better, here’s Ser Stormcloud himself, striding up the bluff. Blackwall’s iron-grey eyes bore holes through the fur lining his face, and the grim set of his jaw is as unforgiving as these Maker-forsaken cliffs. Honestly, if anyone should know better than to interrupt a perfectly good brood...

“Blackwall!” Dorian sings cheerfully. “I was just thinking about you.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he wisely leaves that alone. “About yesterday,” he says.

Dorian’s smirk doesn’t waver, but inside, he’s coiled like a serpent, ready to spit venom. “What about it?” he says, with velveteen menace.

“What you did in that cavern. To the darkspawn, and then with the time magic. You saved our hides.”

Dorian blinks. This is not what he was expecting.

“We were done for. Down the pit. You found a way to pull us out, and instead of thanking you for it, I looked at you as if you’d just throttled a puppy. It was wrong of me.”

“I… appreciate that, Blackwall.” Dorian hears the surprise in his voice, and also a vexing hint of vulnerability.

“That’s only part of what I came here to say,” Blackwall goes on. “It was wrong of me to react the way I did, but it won’t be the last time.”

Dorian’s mouth takes a sour turn. “And you were doing so well.”

“Just listen.” The warrior fixes him with a strange look, somehow doleful and hard all at once. “I don’t mean _I’ll_ do it again, though I can’t promise I won’t. But someone will. Anytime you cast magic like that, people are going to judge you for it. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Blackwall says, his plodding baritone even more deliberate than usual. “It _can’t_ matter. Not if the Inquisitor’s life is on the line. Do you understand?”

Dorian frowns. “I’m not sure I do.”

“You saved my life, and Cassandra’s, and your own, but none of us really matter.”

“Speak for your—”

“What matters is _him_. The Inquisitor. Keeping him safe, come what may. _That_ is your duty, whatever the cost. You did your duty yesterday, and you paid a price. That isn’t fair, but no one ever said the world was fair, especially to a soldier. And that’s what you are now. What we all are. Soldiers. And that means we have to be prepared to sacrifice anything, maybe even everything, to keep the Inquisitor safe, so he can do _his_ duty and put an end to all this. What I’m saying, Dorian, is that next time – and there will be a next time – don’t hesitate. Not for a second. You do whatever you have to, and don’t give a moment’s thought to anybody else, especially not grunts like me.”

There’s a rather irritating lump in Dorian’s throat now, but he keeps his face a careful mask. “You needn’t concern yourself about that,” he says. “Being a pariah is hardly new to me, and I would never stay my hand to placate delicate southern sensibilities. Especially not when the Inquisitor is in danger. I would do anything, literally anything, to keep him safe. Quite apart from his being the chosen one, I am rather fond of him, you know.”

Blackwall nods slowly. “Good. Then we understand each other.”

They stand there for a moment in awkward silence. Blackwall folds his arms and stares down at the ground. Dorian casts about for some idle remark about… anything. Neither of them knows what to do with this temporary armistice. The world feels slightly off-kilter, like a picture that needs straightening.

“You should get some proper boots,” Blackwall says finally. “Those ones look fit for poncing about in a palace, but not much else.”

“Their poncing days are done, I fear,” Dorian says with a sigh. “Perhaps you can recommend something more appropriate for trudging. I daresay you’re an expert on trudging.”

“Yes, we common folk trudge through the muck and shite, and no mistake. On the other hand, my common socks are dry, which is more than I can say for your silk stockings.” With that, Blackwall trudges away, and the world settles into its proper place once again.

Dorian turns back toward camp, and his gaze falls on the Inquisitor, poring over a map with Scout Harding. Has he spoken truly, he wonders? Would he do _literally_ _anything_ to protect the man he loves? Would he, for example, raise Blackwall’s corpse to fight on their behalf if that was all that stood between the Inquisitor and certain death? He shudders, and not because of the frigid wind. Maker willing, they’ll never have to find out. For now, Dorian quite likes the idea of having a purpose. One he chose for himself, instead of having it thrust upon him by someone else.

 _Right now, the world needs him. And he needs you._ So Varric told him not so long ago. It’s a lot of pressure to put on any relationship, let alone one with so much stacked against it already. But Dorian has never shied away from a challenge; on the contrary, he’s always charged into them head on, taking each and every one like a personal dare. How could he do any less for this, the most meaningful challenge of his life?

Thunder rumbles in the distance, threatening another layer of storm over the storm. Dorian shields his face and squints into the wind. “Come on, then,” he murmurs. “I dare you.”


	15. High arc

Dorian is walking past the smithy when he hears a familiar laugh. There’s a lightness to it he hasn’t heard in weeks, and he’s hardly surprised when he recognizes the lilting rhythm of Elven in his lover’s smooth tenor. There’s another voice too – unfamiliar, male, murmuring in a conspiratorial undertone. More laughter, and Dorian experiences a brief, irrational flare of jealousy before his better sense asserts itself. Whatever fears he quietly harbours about his relationship, infidelity isn’t one of them.

Even so, he can’t deny his curiosity, so he nudges through the door and finds himself face-to-face with three startled, rather guilty _-_ looking Dalish. His lover, in particular, wears the _oh dear_ expression of a naughty schoolboy who’s just been caught by his favourite teacher – a condition made all the more amusing by the fact that he is, in this analogy, actually the headmaster.

“Well, well.” Dorian props himself against the doorframe and smiles like a cat with three cornered mice. “What have we here?”

The Inquisition’s newest recruit, Loranil, exchanges a worried glance with the mercenary known only as “Dalish.” She, in turn, looks at the Inquisitor. He’s the ringleader of this group of miscreants, apparently. Of course he is.

“Oh well,” the Inquisitor says with a laugh. “I suppose it was bound to come out eventually.”

“Was it?” Dalish asks. “I thought this bit was just for us.”

Dorian scans the corner of the smithy they’ve annexed for themselves, which currently resembles the laboratory of some amateur alchemist, the kind who occasionally blow themselves up in rather spectacular fashion. An astringent, vaguely sweet odour emanates from a copper pail capped with pipe, under which a bed of coals has been expertly banked. Next to it, an intriguing array of equipment, ranging from a siphon to a square of cheese cloth, lies strewn across a table, vying for space with some farrier tools. Dorian has no idea what he’s looking at, but he knows alcohol when he smells it. “Are you brewing ale?”

“Ale?” Dalish snorts softly. “A man who drinks as much as you do ought to know better. I suppose you’re used to seeing slaves mashing grapes with their toes, or some such?”

It’s uncomfortably close to the mark, but thankfully, the Inquisitor rescues them all from an awkward turn in the conversation. “We’re distilling, actually. _Manise_. It’s a type of spirit we make for special occasions.”

“Make from what?” Dorian is immediately sorry he asked. If they say fermented halla milk, he’s going to be sick.

“Grains and botanicals, mostly. In this case, juniper berries.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Loranil says in vaguely wounded tones. “It’s a craft. An art, even.”

“Loranil’s very proud of his recipe,” the Inquisitor explains with a grin. “I’m dying to try it.”

“Hopefully you won’t die trying it. Or go blind. That would almost be worse, wouldn’t it? Imagine explaining _that_ to the world. _Sorry about all this Corypheus mess, chaps, but you’re on your own. What? Yes, bad bit of business, but I’m afraid I’ve gone and lost my eyesight to a dodgy batch of home-brewed grog._ ”

Loranil looks properly indignant now. “Steady on, shem,” he mutters.

“I seem to recall you saying Dalish didn’t drink,” Dorian points out.

Loranil and Dalish give the Inquisitor an incredulous look, but he just laughs. “I never said that. I said we don’t drink wine, by which I meant we don’t drink what _you_ would consider wine. Of course we drink.”

“Everyone drinks,” Dalish adds in the tones of someone who knows what she’s talking about – which any member of the Bull’s Chargers certainly would.

“All right, then, recruit.” The Inquisitor inclines his head at the still. “Let’s get to it.”

Loranil looks unsure. “I don’t know that we’re quite into the heart of it yet—”

“History waits for no elf,” the Inquisitor declares solemnly. “Also, I’m thirsty.”

The youth does as he’s told, meting out four drams of clear liquid and handing them over with great ceremony. Dorian eyes his apprehensively. A few years ago, he would have leapt at the chance to try some mysterious elven hooch, but he’s older now, and wiser, and in no hurry to acquaint his lover with his regrettable aptitude for projectile vomiting.

On the other hand, he’s acutely aware of the rare privilege he’s been afforded here, and he dare not give offence by refusing. So he takes a sip. It’s herbaceous and malty and… rather good, actually, even if it is strong enough to make a Qunari cry. Everyone coughs appreciatively. “That’ll do,” the Inquisitor rasps, his blue-green eyes watering.

“If your goal is to render yourself insensible in a single cup,” Dorian says between coughs, “then it will do very well indeed.” He takes another tentative sip and finds himself wondering what it would taste like with soda water and lemon. A pity there are no soda springs near Skyhold. Might there be a spell that would do the trick? How hard can it be to make water fizz? Dorian makes a mental note to explore the matter further.

Addressing the mercenary, he says, “What did you mean before, when you said you thought _this bit_ was only for Dalish? I take it there’s another bit?”

As if on cue, Harritt’s assistant calls over from the side of the smithy that is still actually a smithy. “They’re done, Your Worship, just as you asked. Twelve blunt spears, various lengths.” He gestures at the weapons, lined up neatly along the wall. “Dwarf-sized to Qunari-sized, and everything in between.”

“For the competition,” the Inquisitor explains in answer to Dorian’s querying glance. “The three of us have decided to host a tourney.” Grinning, he adds, “Dalish style.”

“They’re setting it up in the lower bailey now,” Loranil says excitedly. “It’s a game called Stones – because you start by throwing a stone, you see. And then everyone has to chuck spears at it.”

Dalish _tsk_ s. “You’re telling it wrong. You don’t just chuck a spear. It can’t be straight on. It has to be in a high arc, or it’s cheating.”

The two of them take turns explaining the rules to this mysterious spear-chucking game, but Dorian isn’t really listening. He’s too busy watching his _amatus_ , whose slightly glazed smile can only partly be explained by the eye-watering spirits they’re all pouring down their throats. After more than six months at Skyhold, the Inquisitor has finally found a way to make the place feel a little more like home, and the effect is remarkable. He’s _breathing_ again, at least for a moment, and Dorian’s own chest feels lighter just watching him.

The tourney is a great success. The Inquisitor takes the first throw, and of course it’s perfect, arcing gracefully through the air before landing squarely on the marker stone in a shower of sparks.

“A sparker on the first throw!” Loranil whistles approvingly. “Unless you can match that, Dalish, His Worship moves on to the next round. And no magic!”

“I’m not a mage!”

She can’t match it, so now it’s Iron Bull versus Krem, which proves to be quite entertaining. The Qunari can skewer a man on the battlefield without batting an eye, but the required “high arc” proves confounding, and a guard on the stairs very nearly meets an untimely end. A great deal of cursing ensues – from the guard, the Qunari, and a highly exercised Commander Cullen.

Solas is watching from the sidelines, and Vivienne too, so it falls to Dorian to represent the mages. He makes a magnificent start with a throw that lands barely six inches from the marker stone. Alas, his beginner’s luck does not hold, possibly because he’s on this third glass of _manise_ , and his next shot is so wild that he loses track of it completely. Happily, the outraged scream of a dracolisk alerts him to its general whereabouts in the vicinity of the stables.

“That’s you out,” Loranil declares.

“Oh dear, how disappointing.” Dorian sips his drink.

“Come on,” the Inquisitor says, laughing, “we’d best go find it. Carry on, you lot.”

They’re carrying on already, Cassandra toeing up to the line to a great chorus of cheers and jeers from the crowd. Nobody’s paying any attention to Dorian or the Inquisitor as they head off to fetch the errant spear – which suits Dorian quite well. The moment they’re shielded from view, he pins his lover to the stable walls – a maneuver that was clearly anticipated, judging from its enthusiastic reception.

“Even you couldn’t make a shot that terrible,” the elf murmurs between kisses.

“I could, actually. But I take my opportunities where I find them.”

“You taste like juniper.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s good,” the elf whispers, his mouth hot and demanding. “It’s very good.”

Dorian is inclined to believe him, given the evidence. “There seems to be a swelling in your breeches, Inquisitor. Let’s take care of that, shall we?” He starts in on the laces at his lover’s waist.

The elf laughs. “We’re fifty feet away from a crowd of a hundred people. That’s a bit much, even for – _stop that_.”

Dorian gives him a wicked smile. “Are you sure? I’ll make it worth the risk.” He’s only teasing. Mostly. But there has been rather a lot of juniper spirits at this point, and the elf actually seems tempted. He hesitates for a moment before growling and pushing Dorian away.

“Go,” he says. “Find your spear.”

“I’d rather find yours.”

“ _Dorian._ ”

“I’m going,” Dorian says with a theatrical sigh. “Just promise me we’ll continue this conversation later.”

The elf doesn’t answer, but he gives Dorian the sort of smile that would set water on fire. Then he heads back to the bailey – taking the long way, mind, to give himself a moment to straighten out, as it were. His step is light, his shoulders relaxed, and the sight brings such a wistful look to Dorian’s face that he’s rather glad no one is there to witness it.

A roar of laughter goes up from the bailey, soaring on the wind before tumbling back into good-natured jeers. _A high arc_ , Dorian thinks, before smirking wryly at himself. He really _is_ getting sentimental.

“I blame you,” he says, glaring at his mostly-empty glass of elven hooch. Then he cuts a meandering path back to the bailey, grinning like the cat that found the cream.

He forgets all about the spear.


	16. Adamant

“There must be some mistake.” Dorian turns the vellum over with a frown, but no – there’s his name, in the usual atrocious penmanship. One would think the ability to write legibly would be a requirement for the role of Inquisition scribe, but apparently not.

“I don’t think so, ser,” the messenger says. “That is, it’s addressed to you and all…” She points at Dorian’s name, helpfully.

“I can see that,” Dorian snaps, “but the orders are wrong. At the top here, it says, _Inquisitor and a small insertion force to infiltrate the fortress._ ”

“Yes, ser, on account of Commander Cullen reckons—”

“Whereas these orders position me outside the gates. You can understand my confusion, yes?”

“Er…” The messenger glances around the library, as if hoping someone will rescue her from the angry mage. “I don’t write the orders, ser. Just the messenger, you know?” She smiles nervously.

“Then perhaps you could deliver a message for me. Please ask the Inquisitor if he would be so good as to stop by when he has a moment.”

“Oh yes, ser, I will do that, ser, certainly.” The messenger flees, leaving Dorian to fume in his little alcove. He has half a mind to set the vellum on fire and drop it over the railing, but that would be a trifle dramatic, even for him.

The elf arrives about an hour later, looking grim and distracted. He’s looked that way for days, at least from what Dorian has seen of him, which has been very little indeed. For over a week now, the Inquisitor has been sequestered with his advisors in the War Room, often into the wee hours. On the rare occasions when he does emerge, he’s distant and preoccupied, oscillating between anxiety and exhaustion. Dorian hardly recognizes the laughing, light-hearted lover he spent the night with after the tourney two weeks ago. The taste of salt and juniper is still sharp on his tongue, but “Dalish Day,” as the event has come to be affectionately known, seems a distant memory.

The Inquisitor sags against the bookshelf and rubs his bloodshot eyes. “You summoned me, my lord?”

Dorian winces inwardly. He has, hasn’t he? He feels foolish now, but he can’t be distracted by it. “I did ask to speak with you, yes. I was hoping you might help me understand this.” He holds out his orders for the assault on Adamant Fortress.

The Inquisitor glances briefly at the vellum, but he doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t need to; they’re his orders, after all. “What is it you don’t understand?”

“I’ve been with the Inquisition for seven months now, and in all that time, do you know how often you’ve gone into battle without me?”

The elf looks away. Of course he knows.

Dorian reminds him anyway. “Never. Not once. And why? Because we’re a bloody good team. Always have been, right from day one. And now suddenly, on the eve of the most important battle since Haven, I’m relegated to the rear lines. Why would that be? Will you not require the skills of a mage?”

“I’ll have a mage,” the Inquisitor says, still avoiding his eye. “Solas will—”

“Solas.” Dorian folds his arms and nods at his boots, trying very hard to keep his temper in check. “Very competent, of course. Not, I daresay, _quite_ as in tune with your methods as I am, but variety is the spice of life, as they say.”

“The thing is—”

“Ah yes, good. I’m rather anxious to hear what the _thing_ is, because I myself am at a loss to explain it. You see, I’ve been doing some reading on Adamant, and it appears to be one of the south’s most impregnable fortresses. It will be stuffed to the ramparts with Grey Wardens and demons, and I shouldn’t wonder if Corypheus himself puts in an appearance, along with his pet archdemon. All in all, it looks as though the Inquisition is in for rather a tough go of it.”

“Yes,” the elf says grimly. “We are.”

“And yet you choose now, of all times, to banish me from your side, as if…” Dorian trails off as the significance of the Inquisitor’s words sink in. “Unless that’s the point.”

He searches his lover’s eyes, and the shadow he finds there is all the answer he needs.

“You’re keeping me out of harm’s way.” Dorian’s voice grows soft with disbelief. “You don’t want me there because you’re afraid I won’t come back.”

“I’m afraid none of us will come back.” He says it with such weary resignation that Dorian’s chest aches.

There’s a beat of silence. Dorian swallows past the lump in his throat. “Then we won’t come back together.”

The elf closes his eyes briefly, as if in pain. “I can’t… I _can’t_ , Dorian.”

“I don’t want to lose you either. That’s why I need to be at your side.”

“You can’t protect me. And I can’t protect you.”

“Maybe not, but we can bloody well try. We are in this together, _amatus._ Until the end.”

“The end may come sooner than you think.” His voice is barely above a whisper now. He doesn’t want his followers to hear. Though if they know him even a little, they’ll read it all in his face, pale and drawn and etched with anticipated grief. He even looks thinner, Dorian thinks, his fine features just a little sharper than they should be.

“Either way,” Dorian says, “I’m going to be there, and I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about you charging off into battle without me. Where you go, I go.” He says this last a little more fiercely than he meant to, and a few heads turn. One of them belongs to Vivienne, who’s leaning out over the railing in a pose far too casual to be credible. How long has she been standing there?

“Those are your orders, are they?” The elf rubs his eyes again, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. Under the circumstances, Dorian counts that a victory.

“No, Inquisitor, those are _your_ orders.” He hands his lover the folded sheet of vellum. “And speaking of orders, eat something, will you? You’re wasting away.”

The elf gives an ironic salute and shuffles off. Or starts to, at any rate – he doesn’t get far before he’s intercepted by Vivienne. “A word, Inquisitor?” She beckons, siren-like, toward her balcony, and they disappear through the door.

Dorian follows. He doesn’t approve of eavesdropping, of course, but she started it. What’s good for the goose, et cetera.

“…absolutely crucial,” Madame de Fer’s voice floats back from the outer balcony as Dorian slips through the door. “If Corypheus succeeds in raising his demon army, all is lost.”

“I’m aware of that,” the Inquisitor says. “I saw the future at Redcliffe, remember.”

“Quite. In which case, I’m sure you’ll agree that the matter is too important to allow… how shall I put this delicately?… _personal considerations_ to interfere with military decisions.”

There’s an icy silence.

“Is there something in particular you’d like to say, Vivienne?”

“Only that I trust you will have at least one mage at your side, and that you will ensure he or she is the best mage for the job.”

“Ah,” says the elf, and there’s a dangerous note in his voice that Dorian hasn’t heard in a long time. “In that case, you needn’t be concerned. I will certainly make sure to have the best mage for the job.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my dear.”

“Which will always be Dorian. Unless I require two mages, in which case it will be Dorian and Solas. Is that all, or did you wish to discuss something else?”

Another icy silence.

“I thank you for your counsel as always, Madame Vivienne.” Dorian catches a glimpse of the mocking bow. “Good afternoon.”

If the Inquisitor spots Dorian during his glorious exit, he doesn’t let on. Vivienne, meanwhile, doesn’t look the least bit surprised to find him leaning against the wall when she steps back inside. “You deserved that, of course,” Dorian says languidly. “Even so, I suspect he’ll be angry with himself later. If you play your cards right, you might even wheedle a favour out of him.”

Vivienne makes an elegantly dismissive gesture. “My feelings are not so delicate as that, my dear.”

He’ll say this for her: if her indifference is feigned, it’s artfully done.

“Frankly, I’m rather impressed,” she says. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Nor did I, honestly.” The elf has always been fierce with his enemies, but at Skyhold, he is every inch the diplomat. Usually.

“It is a rather worrying sign, though, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Come now. Even you, besotted as you are, cannot fail to grasp the significance of such uncharacteristic behaviour. It would seem that our dear Inquisitor is beginning to crack.”

Dorian’s smile is a sheathed blade. “I’d be careful about repeating that were I you.”

Madame de Fer doesn’t even blink. “I have no need to repeat it, for the words have already reached their intended audience. Do with them as you will. In your place, however, I would waste no time seeking out some very strong glue.” With that, she swans back out onto the balcony.

 _She is_ , Dorian thinks, _the most comprehensive bitch_. It should trouble him, perhaps, that a viper like that has somehow wormed her way into the Inquisitor’s inner circle.

What troubles him a great deal more, however, is that she may be right.


	17. Strong glue

“I admit that I would have chosen differently,” Cassandra says in her usual clipped tones. “I am not sure the Wardens deserve another chance, and they are still vulnerable to Corypheus. But it is not the first time I have had reservations about the Inquisitor’s decisions, and his judgment has proven sound so far. Maker willing, it will prove so again.”

“And in the meantime, nobody’s got to answer for it.” Sera scowls into her tankard of ale. “Hundreds of throats cut, and those that did the cutting, or just stood around with their cods in their hands while it was going on, get to just walk away like nothing ever happened. Not saying he was wrong, but it’s shit, yeah?”

Dorian looks up from his own empty tankard, fully aware of the dark glint in his eye. He’s been listening to his companions analyse the Inquisitor’s decision for an hour now, masticating it over and over like a ram chewing its cud, and he’s had enough. “I expect Stroud felt _he_ answered for it in the end,” he says tartly. “Or have we forgotten him already?”

“But that’s the point, innit? He’s not the one who did the throat-cutting. He shouldn’t’ve had to pay the price.”

“And the Inquisitor shouldn’t have had to send a friend to his death, or been the one to decide the fate of every Grey Warden in southern Thedas, but such is life.” Dorian pushes his chair back. “Excuse me, everyone, but if I have to go round on this carousel one more time, I’m going to be sick.”

The sun is setting as he steps outside the tavern. It's been a long day of travel back to Skyhold, and he briefly considers turning in for the night, but instead, he heads back to the main keep. The Inquisitor is probably still shut up with his advisors, debriefing them on the events at Adamant, but Dorian will wait for him for as long as it takes. His _amatus_ needs him.

He enters the keep just in time to see the elf disappear into his quarters - pursued by Solas, who's crossing the hall in long, angry strides. He’s been waiting to pounce, apparently, and now is his chance – or so he thinks.

Dorian cuts him off so abruptly that they almost collide. “No,” he says firmly.

The apostate glares at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not now, and preferably not ever. I can easily guess your sentiments on the events at Adamant, and I’m quite sure the Inquisitor can too. You needn’t feel compelled to voice them.”

“And _you_ needn’t feel compelled to interfere,” Solas says coldly. “Indeed, it astonishes me that you would feel entitled to do so.”

“You mistake obligation for entitlement.”

“You are _obliged_ to prevent my speaking with the Inquisitor?”

“Under the circumstances, yes. And since I’m educating you on the finer points of social interactions, allow me to add a few words on the subject of empathy, a concept with which you seem particularly unfamiliar. The Inquisitor has just emerged from the Fade – the _Fade_ , Solas – where he was hounded by demons, forced to send a good man to his death, and rather unceremoniously informed that he was not, in fact, delivered by Andraste herself, but was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, despite which he is still expected to save the world. More than enough for a fellow to be dealing with, yes? What he needs right now is support and compassion, and if that is somehow beyond you, you might at least have the decency to hold your sage advice until he is capable of receiving it in something resembling a constructive manner.”

Solas continues to glare, but he subsides somewhat. “Presumptuous though you may be, perhaps you are not wrong. There is wisdom in waiting for the emotional impact of these events to diminish before discussing the matter further.”

“Yes, well done, you’ve got this empathy business down pat.”

He leaves Solas to his disapproval and heads up to the Inquisitor's quarters. He's not surprised to find the elf out on the balcony. He's braced against the railing with both hands, eyes closed, looking for all the world like he’s about to be sick. “Sorry,” he says distractedly when he notices Dorian. “I just… the walls were…”

Wordlessly, Dorian folds his lover into his arms, and after a moment, the elf’s breathing steadies.

 _What a hypocrite you are_ , Dorian thinks. _Berating Solas for his lack of empathy, when a few hours ago you were nattering on about the Liberalum, as though that’s what matters right now._ Everyone has their own way of dealing with a harrowing experience, he supposes. Dorian’s coping mechanism of choice used to be alcohol, followed by sex, preferably in that order. Then Alexius taught him to seek solace in something more constructive – namely, research. Thus, Dorian had gone straight to the library upon their return to Skyhold, determined to turn up something useful about Corypheus’s lineage. But when the elf came to see him, it was like ripping a bandage off a gushing wound. Neither of them was ready to confront what had happened in the Fade, and the conversation had ended up being thoroughly unsatisfying for both of them.

Dorian is determined to make up for that now. “Are you all right?” he murmurs.

“You already asked me that.”

“Yes, but this time I’m ready to hear your answer. Really hear it, I mean.”

“I… don’t know, to be honest. What about you?” He turns around, blue-green eyes searching Dorian’s. “You went through it all with me. Are you—?”

“Don’t do that,” Dorian says gently. “It’s not necessary.”

“Do what?”

“What you always do. Put someone else’s worries first. We are talking about you. And it would be perfectly understandable if you were _not_ all right.”

He doesn’t answer, turning back toward the mountains. A ribbon of wind darts up the ramparts and whistles between the crenels, tousling the elf’s silver hair. His gaze is so faraway that Dorian is fairly certain he could leave and the elf wouldn’t even notice.

 _You’re cocking it up,_ he thinks. He has no idea how to do this. How to be what his lover needs.

“Did you believe it?” the elf asks finally. “Deep down, did you truly think I was chosen by Andraste?”

“I did,” Dorian says, half surprised by his own answer. “I still do.”

He shakes his head. “Cassandra said the same thing. Why not just accept the truth? You were both there. You saw the evidence with your own eyes.” He drifts back inside and drops onto the bed, folding his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling.

Dorian tuts and starts unlacing his lover’s boots, which have already left a dusting of dried mud on the bedclothes. “Were you raised by wolves?”

“Halla,” the elf replies absently.

“You’re right,” Dorian says, tugging off a boot. “We have seen the evidence. We’ve been seeing it for months. What the spirit showed us… your memories… that’s only part of the picture. It might not have been Andraste who delivered you from the Fade, but look at everything you’ve achieved since then. Is it so hard to believe people would see the hand of the Maker in that?”

“If you see the hand of the Maker in my fumbling and groping, I’m not sure what to say about your god.”

Dorian straightens with a sigh. “Really, _amatus_ , dangling a sentence like that in front of me in the middle of a serious conversation is terribly cruel. It’s like balancing a juicy bone on the nose of a dog and telling it to _stay_.”

That earns him a smile, at least.

“Where were we? Ah yes – _fumbling and groping_. Is that truly what you think you’ve been doing?”

“For the most part, yes. It’s one thing when I’m sitting in that chair.” He waves vaguely in the direction of the main hall, where he sits in judgment. “I have the luxury of time. I can consult my advisors if I need to. But out there, in the field, when there isn’t a moment to lose… Sometimes I feel as if I might as well toss a coin.”

“What nonsense. There’s nothing the least bit arbitrary about your decisions.”

“No? Hawke or Stroud?” He mimes flipping a coin. “It could have gone either way.”

“But it didn’t. You asked Stroud to stay behind. Why?”

“It was one of them or all of us. There was no time to think.”

“But you did think. I watched you, _amatus_. I saw the struggle in your eyes. That was no knee-jerk decision. You weighed your options, awful as they were, and you chose. So tell me – why Stroud and not Hawke? You had your reasons. I’d like to hear them.”

He scowls. “Why? What’s the point of thrashing it out now? It’s done.”

“Because I think you’ll find that you considered a great deal more in that moment than you realize." Dorian sinks onto the bed. "Shall I help you get started? You understood Stroud’s desire to atone for what his fellow Wardens had done.”

The elf sighs and rubs his eyes. “It was more than that. Hawke felt responsible too, but it wasn’t just about one man. The world still needs the Grey Wardens, but if they’re going to rebuild, people need to believe in them again. Starting with the Wardens themselves.”

“They needed a hero, and you gave them one.”

“ _He_ gave them one. His sacrifice reminded them what the Wardens once were. What they can be again.”

“Whereas Hawke’s sacrifice would have come just as dear, but bought very little. And besides…” Dorian hesitates, but he can’t help giving voice to what he saw in that moment, when the elf spoke Stroud’s name. “Hawke will make a fine Inquisitor if you fall,” he finishes softly.

Another sigh. “Was it that obvious?”

“It was to me. And much as it pains me to admit it”—and it does pain him, so much that his breath catches—“you were right to take it into account.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” Dorian pulls off his boots and stretches out beside his lover, and for a moment they just lie there, contemplating the ceiling. “It rather convincingly proves my point, though, doesn’t it? In the space of a few seconds, you weighed not only the lives of two men, but the fate of the Grey Wardens and the Inquisition as well. And then you made a choice.”

“But was it the right one? And who am I to make it, if I’m not Andraste’s chosen?”

“Never mind that. The Herald of Andraste was left behind at Haven. You are the Inquisitor now. And if you went out this very moment and canvassed every man and woman at Skyhold, you would not find a single soul who thinks it should be anyone else."

The elf swallows hard, blinking rapidly at the ceiling. Then he blows out a long, shaking breath. “Well. One soul, at least. Vivienne isn’t my greatest admirer just now.”

“Don’t be absurd," Dorian says. "Vivienne doesn’t have a soul.”

The elf snorts softly, and Dorian rolls onto his side and gathers him close.

“Or if she does,” he goes on, “it’s not her own. That’s probably how she survives, come to think of it. Have you ever seen her eat? I’ll wager she sucks the souls from the husks of small children. Like eating an oyster. Though I’ll say this for her: as diets go, it’s very slimming.”

The elf is properly laughing now. “Stop. I feel guilty enough as it is.” He burrows in closer and lets out another sigh, this one a great deal more relaxed. “Dorian?”

“ _Mmm_?”

“You’re quite good at this.”

“Am I? Maker’s sake, don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

There’s a pause. He rolls over and looks Dorian in the eye. “A dog with a bone on its nose?”

“Honestly, there were a hundred crude jokes I could have made. Literally, a hundred.”

“It’s quite an image, though, isn’t it? What would you think about me getting a dog called Dorian?”

“I’d kill you in your sleep.”

“Fair enough.” The elf rolls back over and nestles in again, and within minutes, his breathing has smoothed out, his narrow chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Dorian listens to his lover sleeping peacefully, and he feels the tension go out of his own shoulders.

 _Well, well, Madame Vivienne_ , he thinks. _I do believe I’ve found that strong glue._


	18. A Memory: Sideswiped

The noise outside his quarters began just before dawn, as it had every morning since Dorian arrived at Haven. He’d had more than a week now to grow accustomed to its rhythms. First, it was the chickens, crowing and clucking outside his door. Then came hens of another kind: the Chantry sisters taking up their morning prayers. And if by some miracle he managed to sleep through all that, Commander Cullen’s morning exercises with the troops were absolutely guaranteed to help one shake off the remaining cobwebs – either that, or inspire vivid dreams of being chased down by a pack of sweaty templars, dreams which could end badly or very well indeed depending on what Dorian had had to drink the night before.

Either way, there was no ignoring the din, so he washed, dressed, and stepped out under a blushing pink sky, taking care where he put his feet lest he encounter the morning’s fresh crop of chicken shit. The village was already a buzz of voices, but one in particular stood out, a silky tenor that caused him to stand up a little straighter, his hand passing fleetingly over his hair to make sure every strand was in its proper place. The Herald of Andraste stood a few feet away, chatting in low tones with the elven apostate, Solas. This, too, had become routine, and already Dorian was weary of overhearing snippets of _The Ballad of Solas: Tales from the Fade_. On the plus side, it often brought the Herald to his doorstep next, and Dorian found himself looking forward to those little visits more than he should.

Back home, nurturing harmless little crushes was just about his favourite pastime, but it wouldn’t do to indulge in that here. Not with _him_ , and certainly not now, with the world falling down around their ears. Dorian would not do anything to jeopardize his commitment to the Inquisition. He was here for a reason, and it wasn’t to flirt.

But still. You couldn’t help looking, could you? Not when you had _that_ standing in front of you. Slender and yet sculpted, with the lithe athleticism of a feline. High cheekbones and a refined jaw, straight nose and full, kissable mouth. Silvery hair offset by the most extraordinary eyes Dorian had ever seen, the bright aquamarine of the Bay of Qarinus under a blazing sun. It was unnatural. The leader of an upstart rabble like this – and Lavellan _was_ the leader, whether they admitted it to themselves or not – ought to be some grim, grizzled warrior just past his prime. Twice-broken nose, angry scars, broad shoulders burdened with the dour wisdom of a man who’s known too much death, et cetera. Instead, here was this young, vigorous, thoroughly distracting specimen who was _walking over here right now…_

Dorian folded his arms and propped himself against the wall, glancing away in apparent boredom. “Another lovely morning in Haven,” he remarked idly as the elf drew near. “Cold enough to set your teeth chattering.”

The elf’s glance skimmed over him. “You might consider dressing more appropriately.”

Dorian hoisted an eyebrow. “Am I dressed inappropriately? Oh dear.”

“I only meant you could dress more warmly.”

“How disappointing. I rather liked the idea of scandalizing you.” So much for not flirting.

“It would take more than that to scandalize me.”

“Do tell,” Dorian purred. “I’ll be sure to take notes.”

_Stop. It._

But it was futile and he knew it. Flirting was his nature and his habit. He was a cat with a length of yarn dangled in front of his eyes. He simply couldn’t resist.

“Honestly, why not wear something warmer?” Those magnificent eyes fastened on the exposed skin of Dorian’s shoulder, drifting down to his chest. “I can see the goosebumps from here.”

 _That’s not the cold, my fine fellow._ Dorian shrugged his bare shoulder, making sure the gaze lingered a little longer. “Vanity, I’m afraid. An inevitable side-effect of looking this good. But I expect I don’t need to tell _you_ that.”

The elf met his glance and held it, and Dorian fancied he saw the other man biting down on a riposte. He was capable of it, Dorian knew; he’d seen a few intriguing glimpses of the wit behind that careful demeanour. _“All this for me? And I didn’t get Alexius anything...”_ Of course, that only made him more interesting. It was all very inconvenient.

“How are you getting on? Are you comfortable?” He inclined his head at Dorian’s quarters.

“Perfectly comfortable, thank you. After weeks of camping outside Redcliffe, this is positively palatial.”

He smiled. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Nonsense, I’m an accomplished liar. It’s just that I’m not overly invested in convincing you. I thought perhaps an attempt to put on a brave face might earn me a larger bed.”

“Perhaps you’d like to try my bed.”

Dorian blinked.

“I’m not used to sleeping in them anyway,” he went on seamlessly. “It wouldn’t bother me in the slightest if we traded.”

A perfectly plausible continuation of the thought. And yet Dorian had the distinct impression that his reaction had been carefully observed.

Could it be? He was accustomed to such ruses back home. A way of gauging interest from behind a shield of deniability. But surely not here? Not _him_? “That… won’t be necessary,” Dorian faltered. “I appreciate the offer.”

The elf nodded. “We’ll talk later. I have a feeling we’ll be heading back to the Hinterlands today.”

“Hurray,” Dorian said wryly, relieved to find his practiced indifference settling back into place. Even so, his mind whirred as he watched Lavellan walk away. He was imagining it, surely? A bit of wishful thinking, perhaps? His discomfiture must have shown, because Varric, who was walking up the stairs, tilted his head curiously and came over.

“You all right, Sparkler? You look confused.”

“I’m fine, thank you. Only I think I’ve just been sideswiped.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and of course the dwarf asked.

“Sideswiped?”

“A bit of vernacular from back home. Borrowed from thieves’ cant, I understand. It refers to the manoeuvre in which a pickpocket accidentally deliberately bumps into you in a crowd.” It had come to mean something rather different in certain circles, referring to the sort of deliberately ambiguous flirting that could be either embraced or denied, depending on the reaction. But Dorian had no intention of explaining that part.

“You think you just had your pocket picked?” Varric laughed. “Who knew Haven was so dangerous?”

 _Who indeed?_ Dorian was going to have to be even more careful than he’d thought. The elf was a rogue, after all, well practiced in slipping past defences and making off with precious things. It wouldn’t do for Dorian to let his pocket get picked.

It wouldn’t do at all.


	19. Pirate smile

A shadow spills over them, liquid and fleeting. The Inquisitor freezes like a cat with a bird in its sights, head tipped to the sky. The forest goes abruptly, eerily silent – and then it comes, the unmistakable _swoosh_ of massive, leathery wings, followed by a cry that sounds like the agonized rending of metal.

The Inquisitor’s helm glints in the sunlight as he tracks the movement across the sky. If he had a tail, it would be twitching.

“No,” Dorian says.

“ _Yes!_ ” the Qunari roars, sounding like he’s on the verge of sexual climax.

Cassandra, for her part, just sighs.

The dragon tilts to the south, beating her wings again; the treetops bend beneath the sudden rush of wind like terrified servants bowing before a tyrant. Then she disappears behind a hill, and a moment later, the birds resume singing.

There’s a tremor in the earth, subtle but unmistakable. The Inquisitor tears off his helm, gaze abstracted as he strains the limits of his elven hearing. “Half a mile at most.”

“No,” Dorian says again, wearily, but he knows it’s a lost cause. They’re only a few miles from the nearest village. The Inquisitor would rescue kittens from trees if they let him; he’s not going to leave a bunch of helpless peasants at the mercy of a high dragon.

That’s the reason he’ll give, at any rate, but there’s another, simpler one. The elf is a hunter to his bones, and there is no greater prey than a dragon. This is as close to pure pleasure as he gets, at least with his clothes on.

He meets Dorian’s eye and smiles – a dazzling, white-toothed grin Dorian has come to think of as the pirate smile, so named for that memorable morning in Halamshiral when he flung himself out a second-story window like some dashing rogue in a storybook. The pirate smile takes Dorian’s breath away. And it always, _always_ , spells trouble.

Dorian sighs. “I hate you.”

“Noted,” the elf says, still grinning as he ducks back into his helm.

It doesn’t take a hunter to read the signs in the sky, a whirling gyre of carrion birds marking the spot where the dragon has brought down her supper. She’s so busy devouring the druffalo that she fails to smell even the Qunari coming, which is extraordinary. Bull manages to get within a few paces of her left flank, concealed in the thick underbrush; Cassandra mirrors the movement from the opposite side. As for the elf, he’s already stolen up right alongside her, ready to deliver his customary greeting in the form of a dagger to the throat. They’re all waiting on Dorian.

They’ve mastered the dance by now, the four of them. First, Dorian bends time. Then the elf strikes, slashing an artery that runs just beneath the dragon’s jaw. While she’s bleeding out, the warriors surge in from either side, their movements an enchanted blur to Dorian, who keeps well out of range of his own spell – and the terrible retribution it brings.

That’s the plan, at any rate. But that’s not what happens. Of course it isn’t.

Dorian’s temporal distortion is stretched halfway across the clearing when something catches the dragon's attention. A pair of wolves, attracted by the carrion birds, have arrived on the scene. The dragon swivels her great head toward them just as the Inquisitor lunges, and instead of her throat, his flashing blades meet the armoured tip of her snout, glancing harmlessly aside.

“Shit,” Dorian hears him say.

The Qunari lets out a roar and comes barrelling out of the trees, waving his axe pell-mell and doing his best to distract the dragon. It’s a valiant effort, but the lady only has eyes for the slender, silver-haired morsel in her sights. She rears back, jaws opening as she prepares to bite him in half. Dorian can do nothing; not without releasing the time distortion, and that would certainly mean the elf’s death. All he can do is trust in his spell and his lover’s reflexes – and fortunately, neither lets him down. The Inquisitor dives away, throwing himself into the temporal bubble just as the dragon’s jaws close around empty air.

Dorian takes a heartbeat to check that his allies are all within the bubble. _Elf… Qunari… Where’s… ah._ Satisfied that they’ve all been touched by the enchantment, he dismisses it before the dragon gets swept up as well. Now she’s swimming in a different current of time, paddling the calm waters while Cassandra, Bull, and the Inquisitor ride the riptide created by the temporal distortion. They do as much damage as possible while the spell decays, Cassandra and Bull landing punishing blows while the elf seeks out soft spots for his daggers. Dorian, meanwhile, slings spirit energy from a safe distance, conserving his power while he waits for the dragon to reveal herself - her strength, and her weakness.

He doesn’t wait long. She leaps into the air and spins about, putting her tormentors in her sights and sucking in air as she readies for a deadly blast. Dorian smells it before he sees it, the familiar sulphurous odour that promises fire. He too was a creature of flame once, before the Inquisition forced him to learn new tricks. He knows its smell and its voice and its touch as intimately as if it were an ex-lover. And he knows what to do next.

Even before the searing glow leaps from the dragon’s jaws, he’s already compressing the ambient moisture around her into ice. He can’t protect his allies from the blast; they’ll have to get clear, or rely on the enchantments they carry against fire. But he can weaken her, and Maker willing, that will be enough. Dorian pours everything he has into the spell, gritting his teeth as frost prickles along his skin. Soon he’s sheathed in it, cocooned in a cloud of ice so dense he can hardly see. Stinging wind scours his cheeks. His eyelashes stick together, and his nostrils; his fingers are frozen stiff around his staff. But he trusts in the magic, and soon enough, he hears the dragon howl in agony as the ice flays her vulnerable flesh.

He’s not sure how long the blizzard lasts, but by the time the wind dies down and his eyelashes come unstuck, the dragon is all but spent. Her movements are sluggish, her head drooping as the blood loss does its work. She’s been dead for several minutes now – she just doesn’t realize it yet. Finally, her legs give way beneath her and she collapses, sending a swirl of cinders into the air.

Dorian drags himself over to the others, leaning heavily on his staff. The warriors are breathing hard, smudged with ash but apparently unharmed. Cassandra looks relieved, and Bull wears the sort of glazed expression that suggests something rather private has just taken place in his loins.

The Inquisitor, meanwhile, kneels by the dragon’s head, whispering the elven prayer he says over every animal he kills. A way to honour them, he explained to Dorian once, for the sacrifice they’ve made.

“Are you all right?” Dorian asks as he brushes cinders from his lover’s hair.

The elf nods, rising. “Nice work with the blizzard. That looked uncomfortable.”

“It was, thank you for noticing. Not as uncomfortable as being roasted, mind you, which you very nearly were. Again.”

They head back to camp. The scouts don’t need to be told what happened; everyone for miles around has heard the dragon’s shrieking. They’ve got a wagon hitched and ready, and they’ll be off to butcher the carcass as soon as they know where to find it. It’ll take days to remove all the useful bits, but fortunately, that’s not the Inquisitor’s problem, or Dorian’s.

“Thank you,” the elf says later that night, as he and Dorian share the dying fire alone.

“For what?”

“I know you didn’t want to fight the dragon.”

“Of course I didn’t. What sane person would?”

The elf arches an eyebrow. “You think I’m insane?”

“You enjoyed that altogether too much. Not that I begrudge you a little fun now and then, especially with everything you’ve had to deal with lately.” Quietly, Dorian adds, “It’s good to see you smile again.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“No problem at all, Inquisitor. It would just be nice if we didn’t have to risk death just to get a look at those lovely teeth.”

“It wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t risky. I thought you of all people would understand.” He slides closer, his glance doing a quick tour of the slumbering campsite before he leans in and murmurs, “It’s more exciting when there’s a chance you’ll get caught.” He puts a hand on Dorian’s thigh and nips at his ear until Dorian's breath grows heavy. Then he slides his hand all the way up, checking to make sure his message has been received before he gets up and heads for the trees, glancing over his shoulder in unmistakable invitation.

Just before he disappears into darkness, he turns back and flashes a smile. The pirate smile, of course.


	20. The dragon wakes

The cage door swings open, but the poor wretch huddled inside doesn’t emerge right away. His sunken eyes dart between the Inquisitor and the Qunari and back, and when the elf reaches for him, he shrinks back against the bars, cringing like a whipped dog.

“It’s all right,” the Inquisitor says gently, holding out his hand.

“We’re here to help,” Cole adds.

The man glances back over his shoulder at a bundle of tattered rags in the corner. His meagre belongings, Dorian assumes – until the bundle stirs, and he realizes with a pang that it’s actually a person. What’s left of one, at any rate, an elven woman so listless and emaciated that she scarcely seems to know what’s going on. “ _Fasta vass_ ,” he hisses under his breath. His instinct is to turn away, but he forces himself to look. To see what his countrymen have done. _This is what we are_ , he thinks, throwing a disgusted glance at the dead Venatori lying a few feet away. If he could kill them all over again, he would. Shame and anger bring a scorching flush to his skin. No one notices; they’re too busy helping the weakened slaves out of the cage. But Cole must sense the sudden surge of emotion, because he turns and meets Dorian’s eye, and now Dorian does look away.

The woman is unsteady on her feet. The Inquisitor asks her a question in Elven, but she just looks at him blankly. She doesn’t speak it. The language of her people is just one more thing they’ve taken from her. Dorian can see the heartbreak in his lover’s eyes, and the rage. But his voice is composed as he says, “We’ll escort them to camp. I’m not sure they’ll make it on their own.”

It’s a long, grim walk. Nobody speaks, not until they arrive at camp and the Inquisitor has a quiet word with Harding, leaving the freed slaves in her care. Even after the four of them strike out again, the silence lingers – at least until Cole breaks it.

“Dorian, what’s a slave?”

“ _Festis bei umo canavarumi_.” He can’t talk about this. Not now.

“But you said I could ask questions.”

“That’s true. Just… go ask the Inquisitor this one.”

He realizes what he’s done as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but it’s too late. The elf’s stride falters, and he spins around, blue-green eyes glinting with fury. “Are you joking?"

Dorian feels sick. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’d like _me_ to explain slavery to Cole? Why me, I wonder?”

“Not for the reason you’re thinking,” Dorian says with a sigh. “It was a lazy answer. The equivalent of _go ask your father._ I was thinking of you as the man in charge, not—”

“Not an elf? Because I rather think it falls to the slaver rather than the slave to explain it, don’t you?”

And there it is. Dorian knew that dragon would wake eventually. Now it has, and it’s already drawn blood.

_The slaver._

Cole glances between them, visibly distressed. “I’m hurting you, Dorian.”

“No.” Dorian’s voice is frayed. “It’s not you, Cole. Sometimes hurt just… is.”

The elf presses his lips into a thin line and looks away.

“I’m not a slaver,” Dorian says as steadily as he is able. “And you are not a slave. I apologize for my insensitive remark.” Turning to the spirit, he adds, “I will be happy to explain it to you at a later time, Cole.”

He resumes walking, following the path that will lead them back to the dwarven tomb.

He spends the rest of the day going through the motions. They all do. Scarcely a word is exchanged between them. Cole is still upset by what he’s sensing, and the Qunari is trying very hard to be invisible. As for Dorian and his _amatus_ , they barely make eye contact. The elf pauses in front of a brazier; Dorian lights it with a flick of his wrist. An ancient vault opens; they sift through the contents in silence. At one point, they catch each other looking, and it’s like trading a glance from opposite sides of a deep canyon. If there’s a way across, neither of them can see it.

Back at camp, everyone cuts them a wide berth. Just as well. It gives Dorian a chance to say what’s been on his mind for hours – or, perhaps more accurately, what’s been on his mind from the start.

“When we first met, I told you that I hoped this wouldn’t be an issue between us.”

The elf looks up, his fine features brushed in the amber glow of the campfire. He waits for Dorian to continue.

“But that was always a fantasy. Something that painful can’t just be swept aside. The best you can do is try to ignore it. If you’re very lucky, perhaps you even forget it’s there for a time. In which case you’re practically guaranteed to trip over it, as I did today.”

There’s a stretch of silence. The elf’s glance falls back to the flames. “I’m sorry I called you a slaver. It was…” He shakes his head. “I was raw, and I—”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not. It was awful...”

“But?”

He shakes his head again. “No but. I just don’t understand how anyone could do that. _Own_ another person. Buy them and sell them like sheep. And to turn a blind eye to it, pretend it’s not happening…”

“I don’t blame you. How could you understand? It’s completely outside your frame of reference. I envy you that. When it’s something you’ve grown up with… when it’s all you’ve ever known… you don’t question it.”

“But how?” His eyes are practically pleading. He wants so badly for Dorian to say something that will make this better. “How can you not question it?”

Dorian sighs. “Come, _amatus_ , surely you can relate? You’re Dalish. The world you grew up in is completely different from where you are now. Surely there have been moments since you joined the Inquisition that have shaken your worldview? Made you realize that some things you simply accepted as normal and true are nothing of the kind?”

He considers that. “You have.”

“Me?”

“Humans in general, I suppose, but especially you. You’re nothing like what I was taught to expect of a Tevinter.”

“I _am_ better than they are,” Dorian says in a fierce whisper, and he’s not sure which of them he’s trying harder to convince.

“Of course you are.” He slides down the log and takes Dorian’s face in his hands. “And not just them, Dorian. I think you might be the best of all of us.”

Dorian’s breath catches, and tears sting his eyes. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“I’m not.” He brushes his lips across Dorian's. “I’m really not. I’m so sorry, _vhen'an_. My heart was broken, and I—”

“Hush. You had every right to be angry, including with me.” He sighs, closing his eyes against the shimmer of tears that still threatens to break free. “But that’s just the point. This thing isn’t going to go away.”

“What thing?”

“I will always be Tevinter, and you will always be Dalish. I can never fit into your world, and you can never fit in mine. I wouldn’t want you to.”

“So we’ll make our own world.”

Dorian gives a shaky laugh. “That’s ambitious even for you, Inquisitor.”

“Who says we have to live in the Imperium, or among the Dalish?”

“It doesn’t matter. Wherever we go, whatever promises we make to one another, that dragon will always lie between us.”

The elf draws back and gazes into Dorian’s eyes. “Since when are you afraid of dragons?”

Another shaky laugh. “Maker, you’re exasperating.”

“Since when are you afraid of anything, Dorian Pavus?”

“I’m afraid of losing you,” Dorian whispers.

The elf kisses him again. “Dragons can be slain,” he says.

He’s right, of course. Dragons can be slain, and an idea is already forming in Dorian’s head about how to slay this one. Alas, if he takes up that sword, it will only force them further apart. Is that a sacrifice he’s willing to make?

_Since when are you afraid of anything, Dorian Pavus?_

Not a question that needs answering tonight. For now, he drops his head onto his lover’s shoulder and watches the flames. If he stares hard enough, perhaps he’ll see his future.


	21. Wicked grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen and fine folks everywhere, welcome to the Quarantine Entertainment System Trial (QUEST). For the next week, I’ll be updating as often as I can to provide a little extra diversion for those of us stuck at home. I can’t promise every day, but I’ll do my best. Stay safe out there. This too shall pass.

Dorian hears the raised voices before he even enters the hall. Fereldans, from the sound of it, with posh accents – or at least what passes for posh in a country where the king was raised in a stable.

“…simply intolerable, Inquisitor!”

“I understand, my lord. The Inquisition will attend to it straightaway.” The elf’s voice is cool and measured, barely audible through the door.

“Better late than never, eh?”

Who is this insufferable prat? Dorian opens the door to find a small crowd clustered around the Inquisitor. His lordship’s toadies, judging from the ridiculous hats. They might as well be carrying pitchforks and torches, the way they’re pressing in on the elf. Dorian frowns and starts toward them, but a familiar voice draws him up short.

“I’d stay out of it if I were you, Sparkler,” Varric murmurs from his customary spot by the hearth. “Lord Whatshisname is in enough of a froth already. The Inquisitor has it under control, and besides – if his lordship gets any mouthier, Nightingale will have his balls for earrings.”

Dorian pauses. He hadn’t even noticed Leliana’s diminutive form in the crowd, but Varric is right – from the look on her face, Lord Whatshisname had better mind his tongue. And his balls.

Josephine is there too, and even she looks annoyed. But not the Inquisitor. He’s composed as ever, hands folded behind his back while this mustachioed mabari barks at him. “I shouldn’t have to traipse all the way out here to make this request, Inquisitor!”

Leliana scowls. “Perhaps if you had put this much energy into handling the problem yourself, you wouldn’t have had to.”

The man flushes an ugly red and starts to retort, but the Inquisitor cuts across him smoothly. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, my lord. I will see to it personally.”

“Good.” The man turns on his heel and flounces off without so much as a thank-you. “This is what you get when you put a knife-ear in charge,” he mutters to the woman next to him. If Dorian hears him, the elf certainly has, but the Inquisitor’s expression doesn’t change. He stays where he is, serene as a statue as he watches Lord Whatshisname quit the building.

“Who in Andraste’s name was that?” Dorian growls.

Leliana is still glaring daggers at the door through which he disappeared, as if deciding whether she wants those earrings after all. “Lord Brinn of the Palm Lakes,” she says coldly.

“Where?”

“Exactly.”

“I see,” Dorian says. “Shall I set him on fire, Inquisitor?”

“The hats, at least,” Leliana suggests.

“You handled him well, my lord,” Josephine says. “He did not deserve such a gracious response.”

“His concerns are valid. If the Carta has established a foothold in his lands—”

“Then it is due to his negligence,” Leliana says.

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t matter now. We have to deal with it. We can’t afford any interruptions to our lyrium supply.”

Leliana inclines her head. “Of course.”

“Find out everything you can.” Wryly, he adds, “Starting with where in the world the Palm Lakes are.”

His advisors head for the war room, presumably to pore over the map. The elf, meanwhile, looks like he’s ready to collapse after a long day, which means Dorian’s shift is beginning. “You need a drink, Inquisitor,” he says, steering him toward his quarters. “I have just the thing, if you’ll give me a moment. Off you go – I’ll join you just now.” The elf arches an eyebrow, but he does as he’s told, heading for his door with only a single bemused glance over his shoulder.

Dorian manages to catch Josephine before she’s about to disappear into the war room. “Sorry to bother, but did you manage to—”

“Ah,” she says. “You have excellent timing. They just arrived this morning.” She picks up a small burlap sack propped against her bookcase. “I won’t ask what you need them for,” she says, handing it over.

“Dark sorcery, of course.”

She ignores that, diplomat that she is.

“Actually, it’s a surprise for the Inquisitor.”

“How lovely. I’m sure he could use a bit of cheer after that unpleasantness with Lord Brinn.” She sighs and shakes her head. “As though he doesn’t have enough on his shoulders already. How does he handle it all with such grace?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I’m surprised he hasn’t burned the keep to the ground, stripped naked and streaked all the way back to the Dales.”

Her mouth twists wryly. “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It would make a wonderful tavern reel.” Dorian gives an airy wave and takes his leave.

He finds the Inquisitor waiting for him on the sofa, a bottle of wine at the ready.

“We won’t be needing that,” Dorian says.

The elf narrows his eyes as he watches Dorian fetch a pitcher of water and what’s left of the _manise_ from Dalish Day. “What are you up to?”

Dorian reaches into the sack and flourishes a single yellow fruit. He’s gone to great trouble to procure it, so it’s rather disappointing when the Inquisitor tilts his head and says, “What is that?”

“You’re joking. Is it possible you’ve never seen a lemon?”

“Oh!” The elf sits up a little straighter. “I’ve heard of them, of course, but I’ve never seen one.”

“Not even in the markets in Val Royeaux?”

“Strange, isn’t it? You’d think I would have come across them on one of my many fruit shopping expeditions.”

“Not too tired to sass me, evidently.”

“Never.”

“Excellent. Just be sure to conserve some of that energy, Inquisitor. We’re just getting started here.” Dorian takes out a small knife and cuts into the fruit. “I have exactly three of them, so we’ll have to ration ourselves carefully.”

“Are they sweet? They look delicious.”

Dorian flirts with the idea of handing him a slice so he can find out for himself, but he’s not that cruel.

“Patience,” he says. He takes the pitcher of water and places a hand over it, wishing the vessel were glass instead of ceramic so his audience of one could get the full effect. “This part I’m particularly proud of. You’ll never believe where I found the spell. But we can talk about that later.” Closing his eyes, he murmurs a word, and the water starts to foam – a little too much, actually, sloshing over the sides of the pitcher. Dorian hasn’t _quite_ got the hang of this spell yet, but no matter. There’s plenty of water, and a little showmanship is a fine thing. He pours a dram of _manise_ into a glass, and then he grabs the pitcher…

“Don’t you dare!” the elf cries in horror. “That’s the last of it!”

“Trust me.” Dorian adds the soda water and a generous squeeze of lemon, and then he takes a sip, letting it wash over his tongue. Good, but it still needs something. A little bitterness, perhaps? Taking up the knife again, he scrapes off a bit of lemon zest and adds that. He takes another sip, and… A slow smile spreads across his face. Turning to his lover, he bows low and hands his masterpiece over. “Inquisitor.”

The elf scowls into his glass. “What is this potion? It fizzes.”

“Stop pouting and try it.”

He does, and as soon as it hits his tongue, he blinks in surprise. He gives an adorable little sneeze - the bubbles up his nose, presumably - but he recovers quickly. “Oooh,” he says, his gaze falling to the drink. He takes another sip. “ _Oooh._ ”

“You can thank me now or now.”

“What is it?”

“ _Manise_ and soda water.”

The elf gives him a flat look.

“You’re right, of course. We can’t very well call it that. We’ll have to think of a suitably exotic name. Something Dalish, perhaps?”

“Maker, no. If my people found out I’d added water to _manise_ , I’d be exiled from my clan. And then murdered.” He takes another sip while Dorian fixes a second glass for himself. “We need to make more. As soon as possible.”

“So it meets your approval, then? A suitable tonic at the end of a hard day?”

The elf sighs and slumps deeper into the sofa. “A very hard day.”

“No one would ever know it. Josephine was just remarking on how poised you seem. I believe the word she used was _grace_.”

“She’s always very kind.”

“Perhaps, but she’s not wrong.” Dorian drops a lemon wedge in his glass and settles in beside his _amatus_. “How do you manage it, anyway?”

The elf hitches a shoulder. “Instinct.”

“It’s your instinct to be a martyr?”

“Is that what you think it is?” He laughs, but there’s a dark undertone to it.

Dorian sips his drink, unsure how far down this path he wants to go. They’re supposed to be unwinding, after all.

The elf takes the decision out of his hands. “It’s not martyrdom. It’s survival.”

“How is shouldering the world’s problems a matter of survival?”

“It isn’t, but I’m shouldering them whether I will it or not. The only choice left to me is how. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a hunter, it’s that the moment you show weakness, the moment you let yourself be hobbled by it… that’s when the wolves come for you.”

The image is too close to home. Dorian has long thought of his lover as a forest creature, trapped and isolated from his own kind. The idea that he feels surrounded by wolves on top of it all…

“On the other hand,” he says softly, “if you ignore a wound, it only grows deeper.” Dorian knows it better than most. “If you let the hurt build up the way you did before Adamant… It will poison you, _amatus_. I admire your grace more than you know, but if you’re not careful, it will be your downfall. It’s all right to lash out now and then. It’s necessary, even.”

He frowns into his glass. “Like I did last week? You want more of that, do you?”

“If that’s what it takes. You need to let yourself feel.”

Blue-green eyes meet Dorian’s. “I do. Right here, right now, I’m feeling.”

 _It’s not enough_ , Dorian wants to say, but he doesn’t dare. This isn’t the moment.

 _Wear your armour for as long as you need,_ vhen'an. The elf spoke those words to him months ago. Dorian could not have imagined that his lover would need the same assurance from him someday. _How fragile we are_ , he thinks. _All of us. Even him._ Perhaps especially him.

So Dorian will play along for now. “Well, then,” he says. “That’s something, at least.” He sets his drink down and holds out a hand, and the elf curls up against him.

There’s a long pause. The elf stays where he is, drink in hand.

“Are you going to put that down?”

“Not on your life.”

“Fair enough,” Dorian says, and kisses his silver hair. “Whatever you need.”


	22. A Memory: Sneaky bugger

“It’s a damn shame,” the Qunari said. “He was a good guy.” Shaking his head, he took a swig of whatever was in his canteen. He’d offered some to Dorian, but for once, the prospect of alcohol held no appeal. He was depressed enough as it was.

“Don’t write him off yet,” Varric said, his craggy features sketched in firelight. “I’ve seen heroes pull through all kinds of shit.”

Dorian huddled deeper into the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but it did nothing to banish the chill. Absently, he watched the snowflakes land on his lap, only to wither in the heat of the campfire like so many peasants roasted by an archdemon. However heroic the elf might have been, there was no way he could have survived. “Perhaps if we’d stayed with him. We could have—”

“If we’d stayed with him,” the Qunari said, “we’d be dead too.”

He was right, of course. But that didn’t make Dorian feel any better.

“I don’t know shite about heroes,” Sera put in, “but I know a sneaky bugger when I see one. If anybody could’ve wriggled his way out of there, it’s the Herald. Maybe there was a trapdoor somewhere, or a cave or something… You never know, right?”

 _You do, actually._ Dorian kept that to himself. If they wanted to cling to hope, that was their business. “I wonder what the Inquisition will do now,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t suppose…” He trailed off, frowning. Was that a shout? Rising, he peered through the stinging veil of snow. A commotion was building on the far side of the clearing, rolling through camp like a wave.

“ _The Herald_ _!_ ”

“ _Did you hear?_ ”

“ _Andraste be praised._ ”

“ _What do you mean, survived?_ ”

The Iron Bull was on his feet now too. “You gotta be shitting me!”

Dorian stepped out of the glow of the fire, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and sure enough, there he was, slumped between Cassandra and Cullen. Ashen, barely conscious, but very much alive. “I don’t believe it,” he murmured.

“What did I tell you?” Varric grinned. “Never write off a hero. Or a sneaky bugger.”

“It seems our Herald has more miracles in store.” Solas stepped into the firelight from wherever he’d been lurking, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched the cluster of people gathering around Lavellan’s sagging form.

They carried him to the healing tent, setting him on the ground as gingerly as if he were a sleeping child. “Perhaps I ought to help them,” Dorian said, half to himself.

The apostate gave him a wry look. “I was not aware you were skilled in healing magic, Dorian.”

“My healing skills are about as well-honed as your people skills, Solas, but we must make do with what we have.”

Dorian cast his blanket aside and headed over, but he could see straightaway that his meagre talents were not required. Half the camp was gathered around the Herald already, including Mother Giselle and the other healers. The Chantry sisters were praying, the villagers were weeping, and the Inquisition’s leaders conferred in hushed whispers.

And then, through it all, blue-green eyes met Dorian’s. “Hi,” the elf said weakly.

Dorian smiled. “Why, hello.”

“Please, my friends.” Mother Giselle’s shooing motion took in everyone, but her eyes were very pointedly on Dorian. “Give the Herald space.”

Ordinarily, Dorian made it a policy to avoid doing as he was told, but on this occasion he was prepared to make an exception. He started to turn away, but the elf said, “Dorian.”

He turned back, trying very hard not to look pleased. “Herald.”

“Are you all right? Is everyone…” He made a feeble attempt to prop himself on his elbows.

“Hush. Everyone is just fine, thanks to you.” Well, not _everyone_ , obviously, but this was not the time to go into details.

The elf nodded and sank back down onto the blankets.

Mother Giselle had apparently decided Dorian could stay, because she carried on with her business, crushing some herbs with a mortar and pestle. Dorian edged a little closer. “Are you comfortable?” he asked. “Is there anything I can get you?”

The elf just burrowed deeper into his blankets, teeth chattering.

“Some tea, at least,” Dorian growled to no one in particular. “The poor man’s lips are blue.”

“The kettle’s just heating up,” someone said.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Dorian made an irritable gesture at the kettle, and it glowed a brief, angry orange before erupting in a shrill whistle. “A hundred mages within a fifty foot radius, but by all means, let’s do it the old-fashioned way.” Still grumbling, he poured the tea himself, kneeling over the elf and helping him to sit.

“Thank you.” The Herald curled gratefully around the steaming cup.

Dorian’s glance skimmed over the elf’s fine features, pale and drawn but still beautiful in the firelight. He’d faced down a darkspawn magister, an archdemon, and an avalanche, but somehow, there wasn’t a scratch on him. “I’ll say this for you, Lavellan, you know how to make an entrance.”

“So I’m told.” He’d drained his tea already, and his eyelids were starting to droop.

“I’ll let you get some rest.” Dorian started to rise.

The elf reached out and brushed his hand. A fleeting touch, over in a heartbeat, but it was enough to set butterflies loose in Dorian’s stomach. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he whispered before fading back into his blankets.

“And I’m rather pleased to see you, Herald,” Dorian murmured. A little too pleased, if he was being honest.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. When he turned around, he found Mother Giselle’s dark eyes on him. “Thank you for your assistance, young man,” she said coolly. “We will take good care of him.”

“See that you do.” With convincing indifference, he added, “He still has a world to save, after all.”

Those butterflies were still fluttering in Dorian’s stomach as he crossed the camp, and when he started to reach for the blanket he’d discarded, he realized he didn’t need it anymore. He was quite warm, from the inside out.

Out of the dozens of people surrounding him, it was Dorian the elf had called to his side. Dorian’s hand he had reached for. His touch still lingered, a pleasant tingle on the back of Dorian’s fingers. He had no doubt he’d be replaying that moment in his mind in the coming days and nights. Especially the nights.

You didn’t have to be clever to know what that meant.

“Blast it all, Pavus,” Dorian growled as he headed back to his tent. He'd had his pocket picked after all.

Sneaky bugger.


	23. True romance

Dorian is leaving the smithy when he spies Cassandra seated in her usual spot, a book perched on her knees. He can tell from the look on her face – eyes slightly widened, bottom lip drawn between her teeth – that she’s reading that trash again. What’s it called? Swords and Shields? A terrible name, that. A shameless bodice-ripper ought to at least have a clever title. Swords and Sheaths, perhaps. Or, for a different audience, Swords and Spears.

She’s so engrossed that he manages to creep up right behind her. “What’s happening now?” he asks, enjoying the way she jumps at his voice. “Is it _naughty_ , or merely ridiculous?”

She gives him that adorable scowl. “Go away, Dorian. I have heard all I wish to from you on this subject. My reading habits are not your concern.”

He ignores her, peering over her shoulder before she can twist away. “Milky white skin? It _is_ a naughty bit!”

As he speaks, Cassandra’s milky white skin is turning pink.

“Honestly, I’m disappointed in Varric. One is hard-pressed to imagine anything less romantic than milk.”

“What do you know of romance, Tevinter?” she snaps.

“Very little, it’s true. But I’m rather an expert on lust, and here again, milk just doesn’t do the job. Foodstuffs in general have very little role in sex, in my view, but if you’re going to go that route, it ought to be something warm and sensual, at least. Whiskey. Brandy. Milk _chocolate_ , if you insist on bringing dairy into it.”

She gives him a wry look. “All of which, coincidentally, could be used to describe _your_ skin.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Dorian lies, “but now that you mention it…”

“Go. Away.”

“What is it you like about this rubbish, anyway?”

The adorable scowl is back. Honestly, he could do this all day. “How is that of any interest to you?”

“I’m legitimately curious.” Dorian props himself against the wall. “I can see the appeal of the Knight Captain, of course. The virtuous yet sexy warrior determined to do her duty, whatever the cost. Easy to put yourself in her boots. But her paramour? He’s a little… obvious, don’t you think?”

He knows she’ll bite. She can’t resist.

“What do you mean, obvious?”

“The strapping, brooding alpha male. It’s so overdone. If that’s your thing, you might as well give Blackwall a go.”

“I will not dignify that with a response.” Hitching a shoulder, she adds, “And in any case, you are wrong. Theran may come across as such in the early chapters, but that is only because he has a dark past he wishes to conceal.”

“Of course he does. How refreshing.”

“Besides, what makes it romantic is not the characters themselves. It is the obstacles they face. The reasons why they cannot be together.”

Dorian arches an eyebrow. “They seemed awfully together on the page I just saw.”

“They have… lain with each other, it is true.” She blushes again, but she forges ahead, warrior that she is. “But they will be forced apart, and they both know it. Powerful forces are arrayed against them. Only if their love is true, only if they fight for it, will they have a chance. _That_ is what makes it romantic.”

He snorts softly. “If that’s your idea of romance, I might be living the greatest love story of all time.”

“You might be,” Cassandra says with a little smile.

Dorian stares. She’s being sarcastic, surely? And yet the wistful look on her face would suggest otherwise. “I thought you didn’t approve of my relationship with the Inquisitor.”

“I did not,” she says flatly. “Not at first. Though not for the reasons you suppose.”

Dorian’s mouth twists.

“Very well,” she amends, “not _only_ for those reasons. Your being Tevinter was a concern.”

“I imagine my being a _man_ didn’t help, either.”

She leaves that alone. “But I would have had reservations about the Inquisitor becoming involved with anyone. Personal relationships can be a distraction, especially if they are fraught with challenges, as yours seemed bound to be. I worried that your relationship would make it more difficult for the Inquisitor to focus on his duties. That you would demand all his attention. You do demand a lot of attention, Dorian.”

He can’t deny it.

“I was certain you would weaken him. Perhaps even lead him astray.”

“Dear Cassandra, I do adore how direct you are.”

“But I was wrong. Indeed, you have done the opposite. The Inquisitor faces many pressures. There are times when it seems they will become too much. But you are there for him. I can tell when he has spent time with you, because he is lighter. More focused. He is steadier with you than he would ever be without you, of that I am certain. You are his lover, but more than that, you are a true friend.”

 _Vishante kaffas._ This is certainly not how Dorian imagined this conversation going. He’s in danger of becoming quite emotional.

“Things will not be easy for you, I fear. I suspect you know that. But for now, I am glad the Inquisitor has you. Indeed, we should all be glad.”

Dorian knows he should thank her, but he’ll never make it through without cracking. Instead, he says, “But you still don’t like me.”

Either she sees through his smokescreen or she’s feeling charitable, because she gives him an arch smile. “One day, perhaps, if you continue to behave yourself. Now go away. I will have to start this scene all over again, and it will soon be too dark to read.” Arranging herself on her stool once again, she opens her book.

“Shall I bring you a glass of milk to help you get in the mood?”

By way of answer, she jerks her sword an inch out of its scabbard.

“Going,” Dorian says airily.

He crosses paths with the Inquisitor in the main keep. “Well, now,” the elf says. “Someone’s had a pleasant afternoon. What’s that grin all about?”

“Am I grinning?”

“From ear to ear.”

“It’s nothing,” Dorian says. “I just read a good book, that’s all. Will you be available later? I’m thinking whiskey. Or brandy. Perhaps a bit of chocolate.”

“That’s what you’re in the mood for, is it?”

“No,” Dorian says with a coy little smile. “But I’m hoping you are.”


	24. Solace

_Inquisitor. Beloved._

_I go where he goes._

Dorian sucks in a breath. It’s unnaturally loud in the confines of his helm, echoing like the gasp of a dying man. The spirit blurs before him, her voice smoothing out into a meaningless drone as she continues to relate her tale. Telana’s tale. The story of a woman who died trying to reach her _amatus_ one last time. The others listen raptly, but it’s all Dorian can do just to breathe. Her words are still lodged in his breast like arrows, buried deep.

His gaze falls to the skeleton at their feet, somehow preserved after all this time. _Magic_ , he thinks numbly. She was a mage. The Inquisitor’s mage.

_Beloved. I go where he goes._

Dorian’s glance strays to the elf, and it’s a fresh arrow in the ribs. Can he feel it too? Does he hear Dorian’s voice that day in the library, before Adamant?

_Where you go, I go._

It’s like staring into his future. A future he knew would most likely end in death, but this – it’s so much worse than he could have imagined. Telana didn’t just die. She died alone, cold and bloodied, wracked with such grief that it drew spirits from every corner of the Fade. She didn’t just lose her beloved; she never even learned what became of him. Even now, nearly a thousand years later, her anguish hovers over this place like a miasma.

The elf approaches the body – and pitches onto his knees, crying out in pain as the anchor flares a lashing green. Dorian reaches for him, but he scrambles to his feet and skitters away, and a moment later, the anchor subsides. They all stand there a moment in silence. Dorian can’t see his lover’s expression under the helm, but he can tell from the heaving of his shoulders that all is not well. Is it just the anchor, or the grief? Seeing his own future, perhaps, a future written in the blood of a dragon and a would-be god.

It’s almost funny, Dorian thinks as they paddle back to the Avvar village. All the worrying he’s done these past few months, and for what? He recalls Varric’s words that day in the Dales. _Look at it this way, Sparkler. Chances are neither of you will survive long enough for it to be an issue._ Dorian had known even then that the dwarf was right, but he’d let himself forget it somehow. What a waste, all that hand-wringing about their incompatible worlds. What idle foolishness, agonizing over whether he’d have the strength to put things right back home, even if it meant leaving the love of his life behind.

Dorian isn’t afraid of dying. Well… he _is_ , obviously, but not enough to shy away from his duty. And though it might sting his pride to think he’ll be forgotten as easily as Telana, he has never worried about legacy the way his father does. It’s easy to let go of your place in history when your own people repudiate everything you are. But dying alone, _for_ him but _without_ him, forgotten on some wind-swept island… Dorian shudders, gripping the side of the boat to steady himself.

The sun is setting by the time they reach camp. Dorian is exhausted in every way, so he heads straight for his tent. He unbuckles his armour, tugs off his gloves and his boots, taking consolation in routine motions that don’t require him to think.

He doesn’t hear the tent flap stir, but when he turns around, the elf is there. Dorian is too heavy-hearted even to be startled. They wrap around each other in silence – not a lovers’ embrace, but the desperate clinging of the drowning. Dorian tucks his face into the elf’s neck and breathes deep, letting the scent of pine fill his lungs like a fresh breeze pushing away dark clouds.

He starts unlacing the elf’s armour. His lover watches wordlessly, his expression inscrutable in the dim light. They’ve never done this before – not like this, in the middle of camp, surrounded by Inquisition soldiers. But there’s nothing exciting about this, nothing naughty or forbidden. This is solace. This is _air_. They twine together under Dorian’s blankets and comfort each other, their quiet lovemaking an unspoken promise of renewed intimacy.

_Where you go, I go._

It doesn’t solve anything, not really. But it gives them the strength to keep going, and right now, that’s all they can ask for.

Later, as they lie in each other’s arms, a breath of wind stirs the tent flap. “It smells like snow,” the elf murmurs. They’re the first words he’s spoken in hours.

“Winter will be here soon, I suppose.”

“It’s already here. I can feel it.”

Dorian wriggles out from the under the blankets and lifts the tent flap, and sure enough, it’s snowing – thick, heavy flakes that threaten to bury them all in the coming hours. “It’s going to be a cold night.” Crawling back under the blankets, he adds, “At least we have each other to keep warm.”

“I’m not afraid of winter,” the elf says. “There’s always a spring. I can already see the signs, in the birds and the burrowing animals. It’s going to be a beautiful spring, _vhen'an_.”

Dorian can’t help smiling. “You’re quite mad, do you know that?”

“I heard a rumour.”

Dorian presses a kiss to the elf’s forehead. “I adore you,” he whispers. “But just so you know…” He folds the elf into his arms and stares deep into his eyes. “If you hoard the blankets again, I’m throwing you out.”


	25. A Memory: Special

Those first few days at Skyhold saw Dorian and the others wandering around the bailey like stray livestock. Nobody knew where to go. The sleeping arrangements were chaotic enough, with tents scattered all over the premises. But it was during the day that they truly felt aimless. Most of them just loitered in the courtyard, or near the tavern. They’d been forbidden from going into the main keep, at least until the carpenters were finished their basic repairs, and most of the outbuildings were in shambles as well. There was no place to go and nothing to do except watch the adults try to get everything organized. That, and gossip.

“There he goes,” Sera said as the Herald breezed past them.

 _There he goes indeed._ Dorian tried very hard not to stare, but it was difficult. The elf had rather thoughtlessly taken to wearing snug leather breeches that hugged his arse in the most distracting way. Such an adorable arse, too. And surprisingly strapping thighs. Dorian couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to have those wrapped around—

“Look at that,” Sera said. “He needs to talk to Cassandra. Big surprise. Rest of us might as well be dog shite.”

It was true. The Herald hadn’t had a moment for any of them since his miraculous return. Just Cassandra and the other advisors. Oh, and Solas. _That_ stung.

 _And here you thought you were special._ What a joke. Dorian was fairly certain he could walk out the gates of Skyhold and no one would notice, or care if they did. Except Leliana, obviously – she’d have him followed. And quite possibly killed.

Perhaps it was a sign from the Maker. Punishment for thinking such unholy thoughts about His holy Herald. In which case, Dorian reasoned, there was no point in restraining himself. If he was going to pay the price anyway, he might as well let his imagination run riot. Dorian had a _lot_ of imagination.

“Bet you a sovereign she starts twisting her fingers,” Sera said.

Varric snorted. “You don’t have a sovereign. And anyway, that’s a lousy bet.”

Dorian and Blackwall exchanged a bemused glance. “What are you two on about?” Blackwall growled.

“Cassandra always twists her fingers when she’s talking to him,” Sera explained. “Anxious, like.”

“So she has an affectation,” Varric said. “It doesn’t prove she’s pining for the Herald.”

Sera shrugged. “Believe what you like. I say she’s got it bad.”

Blackwall’s ferret-sized eyebrows flew up. “You think Cassandra has feelings for the Herald?”

“Absurd,” Dorian said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “Cassandra is more likely to get an adorable puppy than take a lover.”

“Why, because she comes off all tough and scowly?” Sera smirked and shook her head. “Got you fooled, anyway. Trust me, our little lamb had best watch himself.”

“You really need to stop calling him that,” Blackwall said.

She’d been doing it for days, ever since that night in the valley when the entire camp had burst into song. It was Dorian’s fault, actually. The companions were all gathered round when the faithful began sinking to their knees before the elf, and the look on his face, the disbelief and outright dread…

 _Just look at him_ , Dorian had murmured. _Poor lamb…_

 _Let us hope he is nothing of the kind_ , Vivienne had said in her usual iron tones. _Lambs are slaughtered._

Such a charming woman.

“They’re going to make it official any day now,” Varric said, bringing Dorian back to the present. “Inquisitor Lavellan. Just you watch.”

Dorian experienced a flutter of anxiety on the elf’s behalf. “Do you think he’ll accept?”

“I don’t think they’ll give him much choice. He’s the Herald of Andraste.”

“The Hostage of Andraste, you mean,” Dorian said sourly.

Sera snorted out a laugh. “Nice. Hafta remember that one.”

“Please don’t.” With a final, depressed glance at the Herald and Cassandra, Dorian drifted off.

He hadn't gone far when he spied something interesting near the main gate. A wagonload of books had just arrived, and Josephine’s people were trying to figure out what to do with them. Dorian was more than happy to take a few volumes off their hands. Even Chantry reading, which he assumed this was, would be better than standing around all day.

“There’s some bookshelves in the tower,” one of Josephine’s men was saying. “Take ‘em up there. First door on your right as you enter.”

The woman to whom this was addressed glanced over her shoulder at the keep. “Are we allowed in there yet?”

“Just got the all-clear.”

This was the best news Dorian had heard in days. “May I offer some assistance?” he asked the fellow in charge. “I’m happy to carry an armload or two up to the tower.” And if that gave him a chance to do a little advanced reconnaissance, well… that was merely a happy coincidence.

Dorian knew the moment he spied the recessed alcove between the bookshelves that he would claim it for his own. Ample sunlight, shelter from the drafts, and best of all, a lovely – if incredibly dusty – velvet armchair, which he promptly dragged over to the window. “Pardon me, my good fellow,” he said to one of Josephine’s worker bees, “would you mind bringing a dusting rag with your next load?”

The man frowned. “Thought you was s’posed to be helping?”

“I am helping. You can’t very well store books in all this filth. Terrible for the parchment, you know.”

And so it was, two hours later, that Dorian found himself reclining in a slightly musty-smelling armchair with a spellbook in his lap, feeling more content than he had in months.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“ _Fasta vass._ ” Dorian clutched at his thudding breast and scowled up at the Herald. “Do you do it on purpose, or are you incapable of _not_ sneaking?”

The elf smiled. “Sorry.” His gaze roamed over the bookshelves, already half full. “This is nice.”

“Cosy, isn’t it?”

“Especially with that sunlight coming through the window. You’re like a cat in a sunbeam.”

This was officially the most he’d spoken to Dorian since Haven. He propped a shoulder against the bookshelf, crossing one ankle over the other and looking thoroughly relaxed. _He never looks that relaxed with Cassandra_ , Dorian thought, somewhat childishly.

“Are you planning to claim this as your den?”

Dorian tensed. “You’re not going to kick me out, are you?”

He laughed. “Of course not. A bit cheeky of you, though, isn’t it, sneaking in here before anyone else has a chance to look around? Solas will be especially disappointed. He’d have liked this spot.”

“Do you think so?” Dorian asked, feeling inordinately pleased.

The elf scanned the shelves briefly before drifting to the back of the alcove and leaning against the window. From this vantage, he took in the rest of the rotunda, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“A reasonably good place to hide,” Dorian said, “if you’re looking to avoid people for a while. Do feel free to make use of it.”

He laughed again, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. “Am I so transparent?”

“To me, at least. But I daresay I pay closer attention to you than most.”

Their eyes met, and there was an exquisite stretch of silence. The elf’s colour deepened in perfect time with the warmth spreading through Dorian’s insides.

The blush proved Dorian’s message was understood, but not how it was received; he searched in vain for a clue in the other man’s eyes. The Herald was keeping his cards close, at least for now.

“I think I’d better be careful around you,” the elf said at length.

“Oh?” Dorian purred. “Am I dangerous?”

“If you see through me as easily as you say. Though I have to admit, I’m sceptical. For example, what am I thinking right now?”

Dorian’s smile turned wicked. “Don’t tempt me, Herald.”

“I thought that was the point.” He paused just long enough to let that land, and then he walked away.

The beautifully-timed exit, even more than the words themselves, banished any remaining doubt in Dorian’s mind. The elf _was_ flirting with him, and rather well. That didn’t prove anything – Dorian flirted nearly as shamelessly with women as he did with men – but it was a start.

Did the Herald flirt with Cassandra that way, or Josephine, or Cullen? Or was Dorian special after all?

One thing was certain: He was bloody well going to find out.


	26. Legacy

“ _Andaran atish’an_.”

Somehow, Dorian isn’t surprised. Maker knows he should be. To the extent history remembers Inquisitor Ameridan at all, it’s as a human. To find an elf, and a mage on top of it, should shock him to his bones. Perhaps he’s no longer capable of shock. Too jaded, maybe, or just too numb. Whatever the reason, Dorian feels only sadness as he scans the weary face before them: handsome and creased with care, vallaslin tracing bold lines over the hawk-like features. Dorian recognizes the pattern. Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets.

 _Keeper of Secrets indeed._ How might things have been different if that secret hadn’t been kept? If the world had known that an elven mage saved Orlais in the midst of a Blight? The entire history of the Dalish, a history steeped in blood and oppression, might have been different. Dorian has done a lot of reading about the Dalish over the past couple of months, and it’s been a terrible education. He knew some of it, of course, but the extent of what the People have been through… How much of it could have been avoided, if Ameridan hadn’t fallen here? Dorian’s glance strays to his lover. _Maker, how this must hurt him._ Dorian wants so badly to comfort him, but nothing he can say or do will make this better.

He listens as his lover explains how their people were betrayed. Watches the old hunter wilt in grief as he learns the fate of his own beloved, who died alone on a wind-swept shore. “I never wanted this job,” Ameridan says. “I was needed… as I suspect you were needed.” He meets his successor’s gaze, and something painful and unspoken passes between them.

“I wasn’t Inquisitor by choice,” the younger man says. “Whatever my life was before…” He trails off, glances away.

Dorian has never heard him speak so, not even in the darkest moments, and it tears a hole inside him. _You bloody bastards. Look what you’ve done to him._ He glances at Cassandra, seeking the comfort of rage, but his anger evaporates when he sees the look on her face. She’s heartbroken too, and she doesn’t need Dorian to remind her of the role she played in the making of Inquisitor Lavellan.

“Take moments of happiness where you find them,” Ameridan says wearily. “The world will take the rest.”

 _It already has_ , Dorian thinks. His family, his future… even his name. No one calls him by his given name anymore. No one but Dorian.

At last, the spell decays completely, and Inquisitor Ameridan blows away like so much dust, freeing the dragon-god he’s kept at bay for eight hundred years. The beast hits the floor with a seismic _thud_ , but Dorian can see straightaway that it’s too weak to fight them. It gathers what strength it has and leaps into the air; Dorian shields his eyes against the sudden rush of wind, and by the time he lowers his arm, the elf is on his feet again.

For a moment he just stands there, silent and silver in the moonlight, staring at the empty sky above. “Come on,” he says quietly, and there’s nothing to do but follow.

They spend the next few hours gathering Ameridan’s memories, and it’s bloody awful. Each one seeps into the elf like poison, weighing him down a little more, until he moves like a man wading through a bog. “That’s enough, surely?” Dorian pleads with him at one point. “We know the truth now. We can share it with the world. There’s no need to—”

“He entrusted them to me,” the elf says, and that’s that.

They take what they’ve learned to Kenric, and then it’s time to rest. They’ll need all their strength to fight that dragon tomorrow. But instead of turning in, the elf wanders out the gate and into the forest, gazing up at the unnaturally dark sky as if searching for answers. Dorian hesitates, unsure if he should follow. Perhaps it would be better to give his lover space, let him sort through whatever he’s feeling on his own.

He splits the difference, waiting for an hour or so before heading down to the riverbank, where he finds the Inquisitor perched on a rock. The elf doesn’t turn his head as Dorian approaches, though he’ll have heard the footfalls from a long way off. He just stares into the water, though what he sees, Dorian couldn’t say.

“Are you all right?”

Insects sing through the silence. The night creatures are so loud in this place.

“He was Dalish,” the elf says.

“Yes.”

“He sacrificed everything to save the world, and no one remembered him.”

Dorian swallows hard, settling onto the rock beside his lover.

“The Hero of Ferelden was Dalish. She sacrificed her life to stop the Blight.”

It’s true, isn’t it? Maker, he never even thought about it. That all three of them were-

“And now there’s me. Inquisitor Lavellan. A Dalish. What are the odds, really? There aren’t that many of the People left. It can’t be a coincidence, can it?” He’s still staring at the water, and there’s a numbness in his voice that’s truly awful to hear. “Is this what we’re for? Is this why we’ve been made to suffer for so long? So that when the time comes, we won’t flinch?”

 _Say something, damn you._ But Dorian has no answers to these questions. He can’t even pretend there’s no reason to ask them.

“If that’s true, why isn’t it part of our stories? Part of what it means to be Dalish? I would hardly expect the humans to honour our sacrifice, but we don’t even honour our own. If the People are chosen to serve, to stand in the way of darkness when it comes, can’t we at least wear that as a badge of pride?”

“Perhaps you will from now on. You’re right, I don’t think anyone has quite realized the common thread. That you’re all Dalish. But when the truth about Ameridan spreads—”

“It won’t matter. Because when you get right down to it, their sacrifices didn’t matter.”

 _No, no, no you can’t think that way…_ “That’s not true,” Dorian says as steadily as he can. “Ameridan saved Orlais.”

“Only for it to be consumed by the darkspawn. The Hero of Ferelden stopped the Blight, only for the sky to tear open and threaten to swallow the world.” He meets Dorian’s gaze at last. “Is that my fate? To sacrifice everything for nothing?”

“You can’t think like that. You mustn’t.”

“Don’t mistake me, _vhen'an_. I will do what’s necessary, and I don’t give a damn what the world remembers about me. I just…” He looks away again, his gaze falling back to the water. “I wish I had known all this before. I would have made different choices.”

 _What choices?_ Dorian is afraid to ask.

As if sensing his lover’s thoughts, the elf turns back to him. “For starters,” he says, “I would have told you that I wanted you from the moment I met you.”

Dorian’s heart floods, and he gathers his _amatus_ close.

"When I think of all the time we lost…"

“We’re here now,” Dorian says in a shaky whisper. “Taking our moments of happiness where we find them. That’s all anyone can do, isn’t it?”

The elf sighs and rests his head against Dorian’s chest, and they linger in silence, listening to the chirping of insects and the creaking of thousand year-old trees. Those same songs filled this place ten years ago, during the Blight. They filled it eight hundred years before, as an Avvar dragon circled the skies. Whatever happens tomorrow, or the day after, those songs will go on.

Dorian isn’t sure why that’s a comfort, but it is.


	27. A Memory: Checkmate

The tavern was coming along nicely. Roaring fire, reasonably clean tables, and even a surprisingly competent minstrel. The only drawback was the terrible ale – that, and the lingering perfume of sweaty Qunari. Whatever table Dorian chose for this little enterprise, he would make sure it was well away from the corner Bull had staked out for his own.

The second floor, perhaps? It was quieter up there, which had its advantages for what Dorian had planned. Climbing the stairs, he felt eyes on him, and he found the spirit perched on a windowsill, watching him. Hardly creepy at all.

“Good morning, Cole. Are you well?”

“I’m not hurt.”

“That’s… wonderful. And how are you finding Skyhold?”

“It’s very big. _Walls looming, lurking, pressing in on me, closed and cut off, can’t feel the breath of the wilds…_ ”

Who knew spirits could feel claustrophobic? “I suppose it must seem awfully cramped compared to the Fade.”

“Not to me. I like it here.”

“Then what were you…? Never mind.” So much for chitchat. Dorian scanned the nearby tables appraisingly.

“Are you looking for a place to drink?”

“Bit early, don’t you think?”

“The Iron Bull is drinking.”

“I don’t blame him. If I had to face _that_ in the mirror every morning, I’d be drinking too. Ah!” Dorian had found his spot, a sun-drenched table that stood at a rather intimate remove from the others. “There lies the battlefield.”

The spirit tilted his head curiously. “Are we going to fight in the tavern?”

“Not literally. I’ve invited the Inquisitor for a spot of chess. He’s expressed an interest in learning.” After a few careful nudges from Dorian, who’d done his best to make it sound inexpressibly fascinating. Indeed, he’d all but hinted that anyone who wished to be taken seriously in human society must absolutely master it. A dirty trick, perhaps, taking advantage of Lavellan’s foreign naivete, but all was fair in love and war.

“ _Looking and longing, dreaming in the day. Fireflies dance in my belly. Try to push it away but it always comes back. Wrong time, wrong place, but it’s_ right…”

Dorian frowned. “I thought I asked you to stop poking around in my head.”

“But I’m not!”

He looked so convincingly wounded by the accusation that Dorian decided he believed him, in spite of how eerily on point the words were. “Still, whichever poor soul you _are_ peeping in on would probably prefer that you didn’t. A person’s private thoughts are…”

He trailed off as a shock of silver hair appeared below them. His pupil had arrived.

“Coming just now, Inquisitor,” Dorian called over the railing, enjoying the now-familiar flutter in his stomach. _Fireflies_ , he thought as those magnificent blue-green eyes met his. _I like that._ Whoever Cole had been poaching from had the soul of a poet.

“Hello, Inquisitor!” Cole waved. “Dorian is going to teach you chess! He wants to—”

“ _No_ ,” Dorian growled.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Dorian descended the stairs with carefully studied swagger. “I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Inquisitor.”

“A minute or two, perhaps, but I was enjoying the music.”

“I’ve found a nice, quiet spot for us upstairs.” Dorian retrieved the leather case containing the chessboard. “Don’t worry, it’s not too close to Cole. Rather difficult to outwit your opponent with a chatty spirit spilling the beans at random intervals.”

“I don’t know,” the elf said with a grin. “Sounds like an interesting challenge.”

Dorian led the way to his chosen table and began setting up the board. “The key to chess,” he began, “is anticipating your opponent’s next move. Even better, of course, is to work out his entire strategy.”

“Like battle.”

“Exactly. If you’re lucky, you know a little of your enemy and can plan accordingly. More likely, you’ll resort to searching for clues in his early gambits.”

The elf scanned the board thoughtfully. “In battle, the early moves are usually the most revealing. Your opponent becomes cagier after that.”

“True. And since mediocre players often rely on a handful of traditional strategies, it’s possible to recognize them early on.”

The elf’s mouth twitched wryly. “I’m guessing traditional strategies aren’t your method of choice.”

“There, you see? You’re anticipating your opponent already. I can see you’ll be a worthy foe, Inquisitor.”

Dorian began explaining the roles of the various pieces. He took his time, toying with each figurine, enjoying the elf’s gaze on his fingers. Dorian had lovely fingers. Long and elegant and _dexterous._ The things he could do with those fingers. He spun an ebony mage idly between thumb and forefinger, giving the elf as much time as possible to contemplate these important matters.

Which, of course, was the real purpose of this lesson. A little quality time alone with the Inquisitor, so he could survey his opponent’s defences.

“I thought the queen was the most powerful piece,” the Inquisitor said.

“Not in Tevinter rules. But you’re right – we ought to play by southern rules. In which case, the mage moves in an appropriately _crooked_ fashion, like so.” He traced a diagonal line across the board with his piece.

“What about like this?” The elf’s fingers brushed the back of Dorian’s hand as he took the mage, sending a delicious little shiver down his spine.

 _Did he do that on purpose?_ Dorian would have paid good coin to know what the other man was thinking. Where was the bloody spirit when you needed him?

He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid not. Only a tower can move that way, or the queen.”

“The tower moves?” The elf frowned. “This game makes no sense.”

“The best way to learn is by playing. Shall we begin?”

It was a slow start. Like most novice players, the elf was cautious with his more powerful pieces, preferring to shuffle his pawns around until Dorian threatened something important, at which point he retreated. He kept his gaze on the board, an adorable little stitch between his eyebrows as he concentrated.

“You’ll want to be careful there,” Dorian said, claiming a pawn. And later, “Oops,” as he took a knight.

Then the elf captured his mage. And a tower. Followed by his queen. _Vishante kaffas_ , he was a fast learner. How could he…?

“Check,” the Inquisitor said.

Dorian glanced up. He didn't recall mentioning that particular convention.

The elf’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and a mischievous little grin tugged one corner of his mouth.

“You bastard,” Dorian said.

The elf burst out laughing.

“You bloody bastard! You could have just told me you knew how to play.”

“Why would you assume I didn’t? Because I’m Dalish? We’re nomads, Dorian, not _hermits_.”

“So, what – you thought you’d enjoy watching me make a fool of myself?”

“I knew I would. And I have. It’s been lovely, thank you.”

Dorian smirked. “Don’t get cocky, Inquisitor. We’re not through here. Just because you put me in check…”

The elf shook his head pityingly. “It’s two moves away. Look harder.”

He did. And it was. _Blast_.

Dorian’s pride wouldn’t allow him to surrender. Also, he wanted to draw this out for as long as possible. “Very well, then, what do you say to another game? I won’t go easy on you this time.”

The elf smiled – a smug, smouldering little curl of the mouth that set Dorian’s pulse galloping. “If you like. But I warn you, Lord Pavus, you don’t know what you’re in for. I’d advise you to get out while you still can.”

Dorian looked into those blue-green eyes, and in that moment, he knew it was already too late. There was no getting out. He was done for.

Checkmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we made it! Day 7 of the Quarantine Entertainment System Trial (QUEST). If you’re still here, thanks for reading. It’s been tough posting every day, but I’m glad I did it. And now, I think I need a bit of a break…


	28. Magpie

“I wonder, Inquisitor, if you might consider waiting until the enemy is actually defeated before you commence looting.”

Little fires still burn here and there, remnants of the spell Dorian cast only moments ago, but the elf pays them no mind as he moves from one dead Venatori to the next, searching the bodies for anything useful. “They were defeated,” he replies distractedly. “Quite dead, in fact.”

“Barely. If you get to it any quicker, you’ll be going through their pockets before they even hit the ground. It’s indecent.”

“Dead is dead,” the Inquisitor says. He holds a ring up to the sunlight, eying it appraisingly.

“My little magpie,” Dorian says with an affectionate sigh. “You simply can’t resist anything shiny, can you?” Not for the first time, he wonders how his lover acquired this adorable, if slightly macabre, trait.

Cole takes it upon himself to answer. “ _A boy walks in the woods, steps soft and silent. Sunlight shivers through the branches, shows me what doesn’t belong. A glint in the grass, strange and secret, glitters like half-buried treasure…”_

The elf doesn’t look up, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and he flushes slightly. “That will do, Cole, thank you.”

Dorian is overcome by the image of a small, silver-haired boy dropping to his haunches to examine his prize. What a beautiful child he must have been. “And what was it, this mysterious glint of metal?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not even sure which memory Cole is thinking of. He just described most of my childhood.”

“It was a belt buckle,” Cole supplies. “It was very pretty.”

Dorian laughs. “Not quite treasure, then.”

“It was to me,” the elf says. “Anything that wasn’t of the forest was treasure as far as I was concerned. The places my clan roamed, the wilderness was mostly untouched. Dalish passed through now and then, but we don’t leave anything behind, so when you came across something unusual – a bit of metal, or a scrap of leather – chances were it was from the human world, and…” Another embarrassed smile. “As often as not, attached to a body. Or at least, what was left of one.”

Inquisitor Lavellan: Looting corpses since 9:20 Dragon.

Cassandra’s been listening to the tale as well, smiling as she wipes the blood from her blade. “Were you not frightened of the bodies? Even as a small boy?”

“At first. But curiosity won out in the end. I was fascinated by anything to do with the outside world.”

 _Of course you were._ It’s perfectly consistent with the man he became. The sort who would devour history and arcane knowledge every chance he got. Who would pen a history of his own people in the hopes the wider world would be interested. _The sort who would take a human lover_ , Dorian thinks, _even if it meant becoming a pariah among his own kin._

The elf’s glance falls to Cassandra’s feet. He’s spotted something else in the grass, and magpie that he is, he swoops on it.

“What is that?” Cassandra asks. “A necklace? It’s beautiful.”

“It’s Dalish.” The Inquisitor’s tone is oddly subdued.

Curious now, Dorian goes in for a closer look. It’s an amulet, a graceful thing of ivory and gold designed to look like interlocking halla horns.

“They’re common among the northern clans,” the elf says. “Lovers exchange them when they promise themselves to one another. Each amulet has two halves, and they fit together like a puzzle.” He takes the delicately twined horns between his thumbs and forefingers and twists gently, and they come apart into two separate pieces. “In this case, one lover had an amulet of gold, the other ivory. Then, during the bonding ceremony, they exchanged halves, and…” He twists them back together. “Made a new whole.”

“Beautiful,” Cassandra says again, wistfully. She really is a romantic.

“Like a wedding ring,” Dorian says. “Only more elegant.”

The elf nods. “Which makes me wonder how it got all the way down here.”

Dorian has a pretty good idea, but he keeps it to himself. He’s just seen his lover smile for the first time since their ordeal in the Frostbacks, and he’ll be damned if he lets dark thoughts overtake them again. “You do have an eye for pretty things, _amatus_ ,” he says with forced levity. “Such as myself, for example.”

The elf meets his gaze, and something passes through his eyes that Dorian can’t quite place. He turns away, but not before a hint of colour touches his cheeks. “Come on,” he says, pocketing the amulet. “Let’s see what else they had that doesn’t belong to them.”

They sift through the camp, starting with the clearing before moving into the cave the Venatori were using as a shelter. They’ve only gone a few steps before Dorian sees the cold gleam of iron bars in the shadows, and he swears under his breath, praying they’re not about to find another cage full of slaves. But no – this cage is far too small for a person. What in the Maker? Dorian casts a pale orb of light to illuminate the gloom, and a trio of small, furry things scurries to the back of the cage with a whimper.

“Puppies?” Dorian is incredulous. “What in Andraste’s name are the Venatori doing with a litter of puppies?”

The Inquisitor lowers himself to his haunches in front of the cage. “Not puppies. Cubs.”

“Wolves?” Cassandra scowls in disapproval. “What happened to their mother?”

“They killed her,” Cole says. “They were going to kill the cubs, too, but that one”—he points at one of the pups—“put up a fight, so they decided to keep them. _Take them back to Minrathous. They’ll do well in the fighting pits…_ ”

“Savages,” Cassandra growls.

The elf is quiet, his gaze drifting over the bars before falling back to the cubs. Dorian sees the look in his eyes, and it’s not pity, precisely. It’s sympathy. Maybe even empathy. He murmurs to them in Elven, as though they’ll understand.

Cassandra sighs. “I suppose we will have to put them down,” she says, drawing a dagger from her belt.

Dorian is not a dog person. Or a cat person. He’s not a person who particularly enjoys animals of any kind, other than those that end up on his plate. But he’s bloody well not going to stand here and watch the Seeker murder a bunch of _puppies_.

“Couldn’t we have one of our soldiers take them into town? They’re young enough yet to be tamed. I’d wager someone would be happy to have them.”

The elf hesitates. “They’re wild, Dorian. Deep down, they always will be. It might be kinder to—”

“No.” He says it more sharply than he intended, but the elf’s words have touched a nerve. “Maybe they won’t be able to live the life they were meant for, but they can adjust. They’re fighters, aren’t they, Cole?”

“Yes. And they can trust. They want to.”

“There, you see? Maybe they’ll even be happier in the long run. Well looked after. Loved, even, if they’re lucky.” Maker’s breath, he sounds like a sentimental fool. There’s a fair to middling chance his lover, at least, knows where all this is coming from, but so be it.

One of the cubs inches toward the cage door and sniffs tentatively at the Inquisitor’s glove. It’s the cub Cole pointed out earlier, the black one that picked a fight with its captors. The brave one, evidently. The elf extends a finger through the bars, and the cub nibbles at it.

The Inquisitor sighs. “All right, then,” he says, and proceeds to pick the lock.

They take the cubs back to camp, the Inquisitor carrying one under each arm while Cole carries the last. They’re surprisingly docile, for all their wildness. Too terrified to bite, perhaps, or just too exhausted. Happily, they don’t seem to have been ill-treated, and a few scraps of venison get their spirits up.

“They’re adorable,” Harding says as they load the cubs into a supply crate. “Someone will take them for sure.”

The others head off to find something to eat. Dorian waits until they’re out of earshot before addressing himself to the black cub. “Clever of you, that bit with the finger-nibbling. He couldn’t very well off you after that, could he?”

The cub yawns, showing off sharp little teeth. Then it gets up on hind legs to sniff at Dorian, little black nose twitching with curiosity. Tentatively, Dorian reaches into the crate, and the cub snuffles at his glove. It’s especially interested in the buckles, licking at one of them and even giving it an experimental chew.

“Aren’t you the little magpie?” Dorian murmurs. The cub pays him no mind, chewing away.

And Dorian has an idea.


	29. Guardian

Dorian stands at the bottom of the stairs to the Inquisitor’s quarters, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. He hasn’t felt this nervous about heading up those steps since that memorable afternoon when he first propositioned his lover.

_So… It’s all very nice, this flirting business. I am, however, not a nice man._

He’d been battling the impulse for weeks, but when the moment finally came, he was overcome with doubts. What if the elf said no? What if he said yes, and then he didn’t want Dorian after? Perhaps most frightening of all, what if he did want Dorian, at least for a little while, but ended up breaking his heart?

The jury is still out on that last one.

“Now you’re just stalling,” he murmurs to himself. Shifting the bundle in his arms, Dorian heads up the stairs.

The elf is out on the balcony, despite the chill in the air. After all these months, he still finds the walls of Skyhold oppressive, especially when he’s just back from the field. _Still wild_ , Dorian thinks, recalling the elf’s words from a few days ago. _Deep down, he always will be._

Depositing his bundle at the top of the stairs, he grabs a blanket, wraps it around his shoulders, and heads outside. “Avoiding your paperwork, I see.”

The Inquisitor scowls out at the mountains. “I swear it’s breeding on my desk. How does it pile up like that in a week?”

Dorian folds himself against his lover’s back and gathers him under the blanket. “Just imagine what it would look like if Josephine wasn’t handling most of it. Was that a menu I saw on your desk?”

“For the reception with the Nevarran ambassador. Josephine says it’s a delicate matter. Something about cheese?”

“Ah,” Dorian says knowingly. “The political implications of cheese must not be overlooked, Inquisitor. It’s a matter of national pride. Serve a ripe Fereldan blue to an Orlesian, and you’ve got a war on your hands.”

The elf cocks his head. “What was that?”

“What?”

“It sounded like a whimper.”

“That was me. It’s freezing out here.”

The elf throws a doubtful look over his shoulder but lets it go. “It seems to me that the whole problem could be avoided if we just didn’t serve cheese.”

“What?” Dorian affects a tone of high scandal. “No cheese? No, no, that simply won’t do. The very fact you would suggest it leads me to wonder if we have any future together.”

“Cheese is revolting.”

“Sweet Maker, never let an Orlesian hear you say that. They’ll toss us out of the country.”

The elf turns around abruptly. “There it is again. A whimpering sound, and it’s not coming from you.”

Dorian sighs. No point in putting it off any further. “Very well, you’ve found me out. Come inside, I’ve something to show you.”

His stomach is full of butterflies, and not the good kind. There’s every possibility – indeed probability – that he’s miscalculated here, and this is going to go very badly indeed. But he’s come too far to back out now, so he unwraps his bundle, extracts the writhing creature inside, and places it on the Antivan rug.

The Inquisitor stares at it in stunned silence. His glance flicks briefly to Dorian before settling back on the little black wolf cub at his feet.

Dorian waits for the pup to do its thing. To snuffle curiously at the elf’s boots, or chew on his buckles. _Go on, little magpie. This is your chance._ But the pup just crouches on the carpet, tail tucked and trembling, looking even more pathetic than it had in the cage.

“Dorian…” The reluctant tone in the elf’s voice is not at all promising.

“Just give it a moment. It’ll come around.”

A pool of wet spreads under the cub’s arse.

_Fasta vass._

“This is not what we discussed,” Dorian informs the pup tartly. “Be adorable, I said. Charm him, I said. This is not at all charming. In fact, I distinctly recall instructing you to _avoid_ relieving yourself on the floor. Though at least you had the taste to do it on this ghastly Antivan rug. There’s hope for you yet.”

The elf is laughing, at least, however ruefully. “Dorian, why is there a wolf cub peeing on my carpet?”

“It’s broken, obviously. It was working fine earlier. I’ve no idea what happened.” He waves irritably at the traitorous little creature. “I am not a _dog person_.”

“You don’t say.” The elf lowers himself to his haunches with a sigh. “The poor thing is terrified.” Gently, he collects the pup, murmuring to it consolingly as he carries it over to the closet. He deposits the animal inside, leaving the door open a crack. Then he fetches a bottle of wine and two glasses and arranges himself on the sofa. “Now, do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

Dorian sighs and takes the glass of wine he’s offered. “Perhaps it was a foolish idea. But when I saw you with them, these forest creatures in a cage, I couldn’t help thinking...” He trails off. This sounded a lot better in his head.

“They reminded you of me,” the elf says quietly.

“Yes.”

“Skyhold isn’t a cage.”

 _Isn’t it?_ Dorian keeps that to himself. “That was only part of it, in any case. Being in the Emerald Graves, listening to you speak to them in Elven… It reminded me of something I’d read in one of Genitivi’s books, about the Knights’ Guardians. I thought, if the Emerald Knights had wolves at their sides, why shouldn’t you? How fitting would it be if the Inquisitor, a Dalish elf, were to revive that tradition? That pup”—he tilts his head in the direction of the closet—“seemed like the perfect match. It’s a brave little thing.” Sourly, he adds, “So I thought, at any rate, though the carpet-pissing incident has somewhat dented my confidence.”

“I imagine she found all this”—the elf swirls a finger to indicate his quarters—“a little overwhelming. I know I did.”

“She?”

The elf smirks. “You didn’t bother to check?”

“Did I root around its hindquarters looking for furry genitalia?” Dorian snorts into his wine. “Is that why you put her in the closet? Because she was overwhelmed?”

“I thought it might feel a little more like a den.”

“Clever. You have good instincts for this.” When the elf gives him a wry look, he adds, “I’m not trying to persuade you of anything, truly. If you don’t want her, I’m sure we can find a good home for her. I just thought perhaps…”

“You thought perhaps I needed cheering up.” He looks away as he says it, that dull expression settling over his features once more. It’s his default expression these days, ever since that business with Ameridan.

“I did think that, yes,” Dorian says gently. “And we both know I’m not wrong. She’s already made you laugh once. It’s been ages since I heard you laugh, _amatus_.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. The elf sips his wine with a faraway look. “The Knights’ Guardians,” he murmurs. “I’d forgotten all about them.”

“It’s a grand image, isn’t it? The brave elven warrior with his loyal wolf at his side?”

“It might be considered inflammatory.”

“What?”

“The symbolism. The Emerald Knights defended the Dales from humans. They warred with the Orlesians. If the Inquisitor were to associate himself too closely with that imagery…”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Dorian, but he’s not wrong. There is a risk there. “My dear Inquisitor, when did you become so politically astute?”

“I told you.” The elf sighs. “The longer I wear the costume, the more I become it.”

“All the more reason, perhaps, for you revive an ancient elven tradition.”

The elf starts to reply, but then he looks down and says, “Hello.”

The cub has emerged from her den while they were talking, and is now poking about the room with an inquisitive nose.

“Just needed a moment, did you?” the Inquisitor says. “I know how that feels.”

She snuffles around the foot of the sofa before rediscovering the wet spot on the Antivan rug, which interests her greatly.

“Yes, that was you,” Dorian informs her. “Most unladylike. Although if you do it again, perhaps we can convince him to get rid of that monstrosity once and for all.”

“It was a gift,” the elf says for the hundredth time.

“Just because it was given to you doesn’t mean you have to keep it. I had a lover give me the most comprehensive rash once, but I didn’t treasure it always.”

The elf scrunches his eyes closed. “Thank you for that.”

The cub, meanwhile, continues her exploring. She’s taken an interest in the elf’s boots, sniffing at the soft leather in a way that signals a clear intent to chew. Then she spots the buckles at the elf’s shins, running her nose over them excitedly.

“That’s more like it,” Dorian says. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d mistaken you, little magpie.”

Gingerly, the elf reaches down and holds his fingers out to her, and she sniffs at them.

“You don’t have to decide straightaway,” Dorian tells him.

“Yes, I do. It wouldn’t be fair to her to dither over it. She’s a pack animal. She needs to bond or she won’t feel safe.”

“All right, then. Just do me one favour: Decide for yourself and no one else. Not me, not her, and certainly not the sodding politics.”

“It’s all right. I’ve already decided. She can stay.” He smiles, and it’s the warmest smile Dorian has seen from him in what seems like forever.

So much so, in fact, that Dorian wants to gloat. He’s exceedingly pleased by this outcome, even if it does mean he has to share his lover with a carpet-pissing furball. It will be an adjustment for all concerned – but then, that was the point. “What will you call her?” he asks. “I’ve made a list of known names of Knights’ Guardians. Or perhaps you could name her after one of the knights themselves.”

The Inquisitor shakes his head. “Too political. Besides, you’ve already named her.”

“I have?”

“Of course.” The elf reaches down again, and the pup licks his fingers. “Maggie.”

“Maggie? That’s… not bad, actually.”

The elf meets his eye. “Thank you, _vhen'an._ It’s a beautiful gesture. I love you.”

He leans in for a kiss – chaste at first, but it starts getting interesting, and the elf raises a hand to cup Dorian’s jaw. “I don’t think so,” Dorian says, grabbing his wrist and steering the hand away. “Not until you’ve washed.”


	30. The pivot

“I can’t believe you got him a _puppy_ ,” Varric says, still laughing. “You, of all people! You hate dogs!”

“Nonsense. Why would you say such a thing?” Dorian frowns into his tankard, trying to decide whether it’s worth continuing this battle. Every time he thinks he’s sampled the worst ale in Thedas, the tavern at Skyhold outdoes itself. Someone ought to give them a medal. Or perhaps he’s the one who deserves the medal – he and every other poor sod who miraculously hasn’t died or gone blind drinking this swill.

“Remember that dog in Redcliffe? The one you threatened to set on fire?”

“That mongrel? That wasn’t a dog, it was an oversized rat. And it peed on my boots.”

“That’s what they do, Sparkler. They piss and they shit, in all sorts of places you don’t want them to.”

“And they lick their own balls,” Sera puts in helpfully.

“Lucky them. Perhaps if I could do that, I wouldn’t need to go to such lengths to cheer up a certain gloomy elf. But I can’t, so here we are.”

“Ugh.” Blackwall shakes his head. “I’ll be trying to put that image out of my head all night.”

“Dreaming of it all night, you mean,” Dorian says with an arch of his eyebrow. “I’ll wager it’s the most excitement you’ll see all year, too.”

It’s a measure of the progress in their relationship that Blackwall just rolls his eyes.

“Listen, Sparkler,” Varric says. “Joking aside, you did a good thing. You’re right, the Inquisitor hasn’t been himself lately. Having a cute little furball around will be a nice distraction.”

“Yeah, but who’s gonna train it?” Sera asks. “Dorian?”

His companions laugh about this for several long seconds.

Not that he blames them. In fact, Dorian has been asking himself the same question, and it’s giving him anxiety. The Inquisitor has rather a lot on his plate at the moment. Corypheus. His archdemon. The Chantry. A certain high-quality but admittedly high-maintenance lover. “It will be a challenge, I grant you. At the moment, she’s terribly shy.”

That’s putting it mildly. They’ve barely touched the pup. She’ll lick a finger now and then, or chew a buckle, but she cringes away when the elf reaches for her, and he refuses to press the matter, insisting that she’ll come to him when she’s ready. In the meantime, he lets her do her business on the northern balcony, which the poor servants have been scrubbing on an hourly basis for the past two days.

It’s Blackwall, of all people, who offers to help. “I had a dog once. Rescued him off the streets, bit like you did with that cub.” He stares down at the table as he speaks, as though there’s something uncomfortable about this memory. “Didn’t have him for long, but I learned a thing or two. If you need some advice…”

“I’m not bad with dogs either,” Varric adds. “Not sure about wolves, but I’m happy to lend a hand if you need it.”

“Thank you, both of you.” Dorian rises, abandoning the vile swill in his tankard. “Now I’d better go check on my little magpies.”

He heads up to the Inquisitor’s quarters, where he finds one of them curled up in the middle of the stone floor, dozing in a sunbeam.

The wolf cub, meanwhile, is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s a good thing the servants are keeping your quarters extra clean these days,” Dorian says, taking petty delight in the way the elf jerks awake. It’s nice to be the one startling him for a change. “Though I’m not sure sleeping on the floor is entirely Inquisitorial.”

“Did I fall asleep?” He rubs his eyes. “I suppose I did. I feel oddly refreshed.”

“Where is Maggie? Weeing on the balcony?”

The elf smiles at him – a real smile, bright and triumphant – and lifts his arm, and there she is, curled up in a fluffy black ball against the curve of his body.

"My, my. A breakthrough."

“It seems the secret was coming down to her level.”

“Isn’t it always,” Dorian says dryly.

The pup pricks her ears and raises her head. She meets the elf’s eye, and they stare at each other for a spell. The Inquisitor is still grinning like a boy, and Maggie’s tail thumps slightly, as if in answer.

Dorian sighs, tilting his head to consider this adorable picture. Honestly, it’s ridiculous. All this warm, tingly nonsense… _You’ve gone soft, Pavus._

The Inquisitor asks the pup a question in Elven, and her tail thumps again. He springs to his feet – _springs!_ – and heads out to the western balcony, where he’s keeping scraps of meat in a chill box. Maggie doesn’t even start at the sudden movement, but she does get to her feet, eyes fixed hungrily on the elf as he disappears around the corner.

“Picked up the word for _food_ already, I see,” Dorian says. “Clever you. Now if we can just move your privy out of doors, we’ll be getting somewhere.”

The Inquisitor reappears in the doorway to the balcony, holding a fistful of raw goat. “Do you want this? You’ll have to come over here and get it.”

Maggie’s tail thumps faintly, but she doesn’t move.

“Take your time,” the elf says, crouching in the doorframe and holding the meat out to her.

It takes a little more persuading, but eventually the pup’s hunger overcomes her shyness, and she approaches. The closer she gets, the lower she crouches, tail tucked and ears flat. She extends her muzzle tentatively, licking her chops. Then, in a final burst of courage, she snatches the meat from his hand and scampers away.

“Huzzah,” Dorian says.

The elf is still grinning as he washes up in the basin. “I’m enjoying the challenge. And it’s nice to have a victory that doesn’t involve killing.”

“Except the poor goat, though I suppose it was dead already.” Frankly, the wolf is welcome to all the goat she can eat, as far as Dorian is concerned. The stuff ought to be served braised or not at all, and the kitchens at Skyhold are apparently quite incapable of braising.

“She’s got quite an appetite,” the elf says. “I swear she’s put on a pound since yesterday.”

“How old do you think she is?”

He frowns. “I’ve been wondering about that. I was too distracted to think much of it at the time, but that whole litter was far too small for this time of year. Stunted, maybe, from malnutrition. Or maybe the Venatori did something to them. Is that possible?”

“To retard their growth magically?” Dorian shrugs. “Theoretically, I suppose. I’ve no idea why they’d want to, but who knows why those maniacs do anything. Do you think it’s a problem, her being small for her age?”

“In the wild, maybe, but not here.”

Maggie has finished her meal, and is now lapping noisily at her water dish, splashing it everywhere. There’s blood smeared all over the floor, and Dorian wrinkles his nose at the faint odour of raw goat. This really is going to take some getting used to.

As if reading his thoughts, the elf looks down at his tunic and realizes it’s covered in fur and goat’s blood. He pulls it over his head, baring his torso and leaving his silver hair invitingly tousled. A gust of chill air from outside sends a bristle of gooseflesh over his skin, and his muscles tense, making every sculpted ridge stand out. It’s a tactile glory just begging to be touched, explored with hands and mouth, and Dorian feels a telltale twitch below the waist.

He can’t help shaking his head. A moment ago, he was admiring the elf’s boyish grin, and now… The pivot from chaste adoration to absolutely _filthy_ thoughts is a little too smooth for comfort.

The elf sees him looking, and he’s enjoying it. That gets Dorian’s blood going even more, the twitch becoming a throb, and now there’s a feral look in his lover’s eye that makes him a little weak in the knees. “I don’t think I’ve properly rewarded you for my present,” the elf says with a dangerous curve of his mouth.

“With the wolf cub in here? Are you quite sure? What if I inadvertently set something on fire?” He’s only half joking. It wouldn’t be the first time, and the way the elf is looking at him right now is _so very promising_. Maker’s breath, if he’d known it would be this easy to fix his lover…

“You’ll manage,” the Inquisitor says idly, loosening the laces of his breeches just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse. “But I do think you’d better lock the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, you guys, I’ve pretty much given up on narrative discipline for the moment. I’m just not up for doom and gloom. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming at some point, but for now, I’m keeping it light.


	31. Outcast

Dorian is cranky.

How quickly things change. One minute, you’re reveling in a spot of well-earned domestic bliss, lazing about and having the best sex of your life, and the next thing you know, it’s _Get packing, Dorian, we have another enchanted bauble to go after, and oh by the way, it’s in your very favourite part of Thedas, the Hissing Wastes. Grab your staff – no, not that one, won’t be needing that for a while, I’m afraid – hurry up now, no time to lose, something something Venatori world ending._

This is all _her_ fault. The witch. Why couldn’t she have just stayed in Val Royeaux, or better yet the Korcari Wilds? Instead she’s wormed her way into the Inquisition – into the bloody _war council_ , no less – and now Dorian has to help sift through the world’s largest litterbox in search of some enchanted dwarven turd. He shoots a salty glance at the object of his displeasure, but she just lifts a raven-black eyebrow, mouth curved in idle amusement at this admittedly empty display.

“Dorian.”

“Inquisitor?”

“Are you with us?” The elf throws a look over his shoulder, as if sensing his lover’s silent rant. He is currently the slender meat in a giant man sandwich, wedged between Blackwall and the Iron Bull as they hunch over Harding’s map, and it’s a measure of Dorian’s peevishness that he can’t even conjure an amusing fantasy out of it.

Harding clears her throat. “As I was saying, we think the tomb is somewhere near here.” She points at the map. “On the far side of the Sand Crags.”

Dorian sighs. “There’s rather a lot of sand in my crags already, and we only just got here. This had better be worth it, Morrigan.”

“Have you somewhere more important to be, Pavus? The spa, perhaps?”

“Now that you mention it, my cuticles could use a little attention.” He examines them with a critical eye.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall growls. “What is it with mages? Can none of you get along for five minutes?”

“Getting along is for the slow-witted,” Dorian says. “A _quick tongue_ is always more interesting. Wouldn’t you agree, Inquisitor?”

The elf ignores that. “Let’s get moving, everyone. We don’t want Dorian to get any more sand in his crags than absolutely necessary.”

They strike out, with Morrigan leading the way. She seems awfully confident of their destination, even without the map. _She knows more than she’s letting on_ , he thinks. _I’ll wager she’ll want to keep this mysterious amulet for herself, too._ Assuming they actually find it.

“‘Tis most generous of you to allow me to join the expedition, Inquisitor,” she says as they walk. “I trust it does not make your companions nervous, having an apostate at their side.” Her tone is subtly goading, practically daring one of them to voice an objection.

Dorian is intimately familiar with this tactic. Wear your alienation like armour, and no one can use it as a weapon against you. Always better to be the provocateur than the provoked.

The Inquisitor smiles. “We’re a Dalish elf, a Grey Warden, a mercenary captain, and a magister’s son. I think you’ll find our views on apostasy more nuanced than what you might be used to.”

“Perhaps,” she allows. Then, with a wry glance at Dorian, she adds, “Still, your tame Tevinter would prefer I was not here.”

“Untrue,” Dorian says. “I would prefer _I_ was not here, but you are most welcome to it. Indeed, I’m particularly enjoying the effect you’re having on our Grey Warden. Those tattered rags you call a top have him blushing like a schoolgirl.”

“Shut it, Dorian,” Blackwall growls, blushing.

Thinking she spies an opening, the witch treats Dorian to a sultry little smirk. “The Warden, but not the pampered magister’s son? Do I not shock you, Pavus? Or distract you, perhaps?”

Dorian laughs. “I’m not sure which of those is less likely.”

“Ah, yes. I have heard it said that Tevinter men prefer their women to be submissive. In which case, I would certainly not appeal.”

What’s this? Is it possible she’s the only person at Skyhold – indeed perhaps the only person in all of Thedas – who _doesn’t know_? “Darling Morrigan. Haven’t spent much time socializing since joining the Inquisition, have you?”

“I fail to see what my social calendar has to do with anything.”

“Indeed, there is a great deal you fail to see, evidently.”

“Dorian…” The elf shoots a warning look over his shoulder.

“You needn’t fear, Inquisitor. No cudgels here.” He well remembers the scolding he received the last time he flaunted their relationship.

“Don’t let him wind you up, my lady,” Blackwall advises her. “It’s practically a sport with him.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian says. “It’s not at all sporting, especially with you. Like taking candy from a baby, frankly. A rather large baby afflicted with a disfiguring case of lycanthropy.”

Morrigan snorts out a laugh, which seems to surprise her as much as anyone.

“I’m going to let you have that one,” Blackwall says, “because I feel sorry for you.”

“ _You_ feel sorry for _me_? Don’t be preposterous.”

“You were finally getting comfortable back at Skyhold, all warm and cuddly with your fancy wine and your puppy and your…” He glances at the elf, blushes, and stumbles ahead. “And now you’re out here in this Maker-forsaken desert with the rest of us.”

“It’s true,” Dorian sighs. “I will allow that I’m feeling waspish. It’s filthy and windy and _freezing_. Perhaps we could cuddle later, Blackwall.”

“In your dreams, mage.”

“I’ll cuddle you, Dorian,” Bull says. “If the boss doesn’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” the elf says. “Just watch out for the sand in his crags.”

It goes on like this for much of the morning, at least between the men. There’s little else to occupy them on their long trek to the Sand Crags, and they trade barbs as though they’re keeping score. Morrigan, however, takes no part, and when they reach the Sand Crags camp, she sits apart from the others, leafing through an old grimoire so dog-eared that Dorian suspects she’s memorized every page. He knows a shield when he sees one, and he feels sorry for the witch, despite himself.

She glances up at his approach, golden eyes narrowed warily. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you join us?” Dorian gestures toward the campfire, where the others are grabbing a bite to eat before they head out for the afternoon. “You must be freezing.”

“I am content, thank you.” She doesn’t move.

“They’re quite friendly, you know,” Dorian says. “Apart from me, of course.”

“I have no wish to interrupt the camaraderie.”

“Why should you interrupt it? If they can manage a Tevinter, they can manage a Witch of the Wilds.” He’s not quite sure why he’s doing this. If the witch chooses to isolate herself, why should he care?

Those golden eyes appraise him for a moment. “You do seem to have found a place for yourself in the Inquisition,” she says in a tone of guarded curiosity. “‘Tis remarkable they have embraced you so readily, in light of your background.”

“It wasn’t always so.” Dorian shrugs. “And it’s not universal. There are many within the Inquisition, including at the highest levels, who would be only too pleased to send me packing.”

“But you are protected. The Inquisitor seems to favour you. Not unlike my relationship with Empress Celene, I suppose.”

Dorian’s eyebrows fly up, and he can’t help laughing. “Do tell. And here I thought she only had eyes for Briala.” When Morrigan gives him a quizzical look, he shakes his head. “You really don’t know, do you?” He feels awkward now, realizing how inadvertently on point his earlier mockery was. If she hasn’t heard a single bit of gossip about Inquisitor Lavellan and his Tevinter paramour, it means she hasn’t a single friend at Skyhold.

 _Why should she? You didn’t._ It occurs to him – somewhat belatedly, he must admit – that they have more than a little in common, he and the witch. Both of them distrusted, leaving whispers in their wake. Sharp-tongued and razor-witted, coiled like serpents ready to strike at the slightest sign of disapproval. But instead of seeing her as a kindred spirit, he’s joined in with the rest of the rabble, like a schoolboy relieved to have the bully’s attention directed elsewhere.

“I owe you an apology, Morrigan.”

“Indeed?”

“I’ve been most ungracious. It’s been weeks since you joined us, and I’ve yet to invite you for a single drink, or a game of chess. Do you play?”

Her eyes narrow again, as if she suspects a trick. “Of what did you speak a moment ago? What is it I do not know?”

“Ah. Yes.” Dorian folds his arms and shifts on his feet. “The Inquisitor and I are… How shall I put this? Our relationship is… intimate.”

She blinks once. “I see.” She glances at the elf, laughing with Bull and Blackwall on the far side of camp. “That is… surprising.”

“Indeed it is. A Dalish elf and a magister’s son? But then, it’s all rather surprising, isn’t it? The Qunari and I got off to a rough start, but we get along famously now. I count among my friends a painfully serious templar and a Seeker of Truth who might well become the next Divine. On any given day I might find myself fighting alongside an apostate, an up-jumped Circle mage, an itinerant thief, a Grey Warden, a sometime smuggler, or a spirit from the Fade. I won’t say we’re one big happy family, but then again, I’m not sure there is such a thing.”

“Yes, you have clearly made a home for yourself,” she says impatiently. “You have my congratulations. Is there a point, Pavus?”

“Only that it’s difficult to be an outcast when one is surrounded by outcasts. So take my advice and don’t bother.” He tilts his head in the direction of the fire. “Come. It’s much warmer.”

She sighs elaborately, as if this is all rather trying. “Very well, if that is what is required for you to leave me in peace.”

The elf looks up as they approach. “Welcome,” he says with a smile. “I was beginning to wonder if there was something mage-y going on I should know about.”

“Not at all, Inquisitor,” Dorian says breezily. “We were just talking about…” His eyes meet Morrigan’s, and she arches an eyebrow, waiting to see what he comes up with. “About family,” he finishes.

He feels irretrievably sappy as soon as he’s said it.

And also rather marvelous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge and heartfelt thanks for reading, and especially to those who've taken the time to leave a comment or kudos. You guys are what makes this fun, especially in these times of waaaay to much distance. Be well, everyone.


	32. A Memory: First kiss

The journey home from Redcliffe was long and quiet. The Inquisitor rode ahead with his soldiers, leaving Dorian alone with his thoughts – or perhaps sorting through his own. Dorian hadn’t seen the elf’s face when he dropped his grenade in the tavern; he’d been too busy staring down his father. As for what came after, it was all a bit hazy, the details obscured in a red mist of anger and hurt. Dorian couldn’t guess what was going through the Inquisitor’s mind in that moment, still less what he might be thinking now. Which was probably for the best, since it wasn’t likely to be flattering.

 _You shouldn’t have brought him._ Dorian had fully expected some drama or another. What in the Maker had made him think the Inquisitor needed to see that? But no… That wasn’t the point, was it? The show wasn’t for him. It was for his father’s messenger. _Look at me now. Do you see this fancy armour? This weapon? See how I’m valued? The Inquisitor himself stands at my side. Tell my father I don’t need him. I never needed him._

But when the moment came, it was no mere retainer waiting for him. It was Magister Pavus himself, dour and disapproving as ever, and the iron had leaked from Dorian’s spine like ink from a broken quill. He hadn’t felt smug or empowered or even strong. Instead he felt like a child again, desperate to make his father proud. And so he’d done what he always did, unsheathing his tongue and wielding it like a blade until everyone, himself included, bled freely.

And the Inquisitor had witnessed it all.

 _Well done, Dorian. Simply brilliant._ He’d always had a talent for self-sabotage, but this was a new level of achievement. The elf would probably avoid him like the plague after this. The last person you wanted at your side when you were trying to save the world was a hot mess of a mage. Dorian couldn’t wait to get out of his sight. His, and everyone else’s.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached Skyhold. The Inquisitor hadn’t even climbed down from his horse before he was mobbed by his followers, and that suited Dorian just fine, allowing him to slink away unnoticed. All he wanted was to retreat to his nook in the library and wait for the sun to set, whereupon he planned to get roaring drunk. But he’d barely settled against the window before he heard someone greet the Inquisitor, and when he glanced over his shoulder, the elf was there. He’d tailed Dorian straight up to the library, and now there was no place to hide.

 _Send him away_ , the sensible part of Dorian’s brain whispered. _Thank him and leave it at that, before you make this even worse._ But of course he couldn’t. Instead he just started talking, the words falling from his lips without conscious thought. With every breath, he bared his soul just that little bit more, a masochistic exhibitionist to the last. Having the elf there to witness his hurt was like worrying at a loose tooth, irresistible even as it bled.

Until finally there was no more to say, and Dorian found himself gazing into those blue-green eyes, trying in vain to guess what they concealed. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

“I think you’re very brave.”

“Brave?”

“It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.”

Dorian stared, momentarily lost for words. If anyone knew about defying tradition, it was this man. He couldn’t possibly be putting Dorian’s choices on the same footing. He was just being diplomatic, surely? And yet there was a warmth in his gaze that made Dorian a little giddy, and the next thing he knew he was babbling again, justifying his behaviour as though he were some kind of tragic hero. “You have to fight for what’s in your heart.”

Maker’s breath, he sounded like some hack actor in a Chantry play. What was it about this man that brought out _all the sap_?

But the elf didn’t laugh at him, or smile politely and take his leave. Instead, he said, “I agree,” and took a purposeful step forward, and before Dorian could even fully process what was happening, they were an inch apart and gazing into each other’s eyes. A heartbeat longer, a silent question answered, and their lips met – tentatively at first, then brazenly, the elf’s tongue darting into Dorian’s mouth just enough to make him chase after it greedily. Heat spread through him like a shot of whiskey, and for a glorious moment Dorian forgot about everything but that sweet mouth, the whisper of fingers on the back of his neck, the warmth of the elf’s body so close to his. Then a throb below the waist reminded him rather pointedly of where they were and who might be looking, and he pulled back – smiling, he rather suspected, like the cat who got the cream. The elf was smiling too, with a hint of self-consciousness that made Dorian want to pin him against the bookcase, audience be damned.

What came next was another blur – a trite line about playing with fire, an invitation for a drink. Dorian’s blood was still roaring in his ears, desire and disbelief and triumph mingling together in a heady brew. Whatever the elf was feeling was concealed behind that serene gaze once more, and he walked out of the library as though nothing at all had happened, seemingly oblivious to the eyes following him as he disappeared into the stairwell. Then those same eyes snapped to Dorian, and he fought the impulse to take an elaborate bow.

He’d had every intention of heading for the tavern, but instead he sank into his chair. He needed a moment to recover, for his head to stop spinning like a roulette wheel, for the little black ball to land somewhere that made sense. How had his day gone from raw pain to raw desire in seconds? And now, in the wake of that desire, a sweet craving that he already knew would be his constant companion in the days to come. It was tragic, really, how something you’d daydreamed about for so long could come and go so quickly, as fleeting as a single heartbeat.

 _Oh, Alexius, where is your time magic when I need it?_ All he wanted was to relive that moment over again. To savour the frisson of their lips meeting for the first time. There was nothing like a first kiss. If he was lucky, there would be a second kiss, and a third. If he was _very_ lucky, it might even lead to something interesting. But a first kiss? That could only ever happen once. After that, they were just a memory.

But oh, what a memory. Whatever happened in the days and weeks ahead, Dorian knew he would revisit that kiss often. Starting tonight.

 _First, you need a drink, and a stiff one at that._ Later, he suspected, there would be another kind of stiff one, but he was looking forward to that too.

It really had been that sort of day.


	33. Savages

The companions are greeted at the gates of Skyhold by the usual mob. Or rather, the Inquisitor is; the rest of them might as well be invisible. The faithful cluster around him, offering to help with all sorts of things he really doesn’t need help with. Getting down from his horse. Unstrapping the daggers from his back. Cleaning his boots. Dorian is fairly certain they’d hold his dick while he took a piss if he let them. And then there are the messengers, practically shoving each other out of the way in their haste to be the first to deliver their missives, all of which are Extremely Urgent.

In moments like these, Dorian misses Tevinter. Back home, he’d be received in a civilized fashion. Offered a warm cloth soaked in lemon water, followed by a splash of sherry. His traveling cloak would be whisked from his shoulders, and his luggage would magically relocate itself to his room, where a hot bath scented with lavender would be drawn and ready. Certainly, he wouldn’t be expected to lead his own horse to the stables, or indeed to go anywhere near them at all. He supposes he ought to be grateful Dennet doesn’t make him brush the animal down and scrape the shit from its hooves while he’s at it.

“What a circus,” Blackwall mutters as he loosens the cinch around his horse’s middle. “I don’t envy the Inquisitor having to deal with that every time he rides through the gates.”

“Nor I,” says Dorian. “Though it would be nice, from time to time, to think someone noticed or cared that the rest of us returned safely.”

Blackwall snorts. “Get used to it, princess. Nobody gives a dog’s arse about the grunts.”

“Apparently,” Dorian mutters, glancing back at the Inquisitor.

The elf is handling it all with his usual grace. “Please tell the commander I’ll come to him shortly, just as soon as I’ve seen to Leliana.”

“But, Your Worship, the lady ambassador—”

“And the quartermaster—”

“As soon as I can,” the elf says with a sigh, reaching for the pack strapped to his horse. “Could someone kindly…”

“I’ll take it up,” Dorian offers.

The elf gives him a quizzical look. After all, he has _people_ for that sort of thing. Then understanding dawns in his eyes, and he suppresses a smile. “Thank you, Dorian, that’s very generous of you.” Handing the pack over, he adds in an undertone, “And please feel free to have the servants draw you… I mean _me_ … a bath.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Inquisitor, but if you hurry, perhaps you might join me.”

“In the bath?” The elf cocks his head.

“What, have you never…?”

“Never wha— _Oh._ ” He considers that. “Does a river count?”

“No, my adorable little savage, it most certainly does not. Tend to your business quickly and I’ll show you why.”

The elf sighs again, his glance falling ruefully to the stack of messages in his hand. “I wouldn’t count on that. Just save some wine for me, will you?”

“I wouldn’t count on _that_.”

Dorian shoulders the Inquisitor’s pack along with his own and heads to the main keep. He’s exhausted and filthy and already uncorking a bottle of wine in his head, so when he reaches the top of the stairs and finds a dark beast hurtling toward him at alarming speed, it startles him enough to call a flicker of flames to his fingertips.

Maggie skids to a halt, toenails scraping noisily across the stone floor, yellow eyes fixed on the flaming fingers.

“Sorry.” Dorian dismisses the spell with a flick of his wrist. “Forgot about you.”

As soon as the fire vanishes, Maggie rushes him again, tail wagging so exuberantly that it drags her arse along with it. She gets up on hind legs – Dorian yelps and jumps back – and then does a little pirouette, whining. And in case this wasn’t enough to convey her excitement, she proceeds to pee on the rug.

Dorian swears under his breath, but he can’t help laughing. “You ridiculous creature. If you’re this worked up already, how are you going to react when your master gets home?”

As if in answer, Maggie snuffles noisily at the elf’s pack, perhaps wondering if he’s stashed in there somewhere.

“You’ll have to wait awhile, I’m afraid. And so will I, thanks to you. There’ll be no bathing until this mess is cleaned up.”

Maggie does not seem bothered by this. She’s too busy licking Dorian’s fingers. And since he’s planning to bathe anyway… He crouches down and pats her awkwardly, and she seems to have no objection so long as she can continue licking his hand and smearing her wet nose up and down his forearm. It’s all rather disgusting, and also delightful.

“At least someone’s glad to see me,” Dorian murmurs, patting her with a little more assurance. “As welcoming committees go, you’re somewhat lacking in refinement, but your enthusiasm is undeniable.”

He calls for the servants, doing his best to keep Maggie out of the way while they clean up after her and draw a bath “for the Inquisitor.” He’s just managed to herd her out onto the balcony when Cullen arrives, prompting a renewed series of pirouettes and excited whines from the pup.

“And here I thought I was special,” Dorian says.

Cullen laughs. “She knows who’s been feeding her. Isn’t that right, Maggie?”

Another pirouette. Quite the dancer, this one.

“I didn’t realize you were up here,” Cullen says. “She’s due for her supper, and I thought it might be a while before the Inquisitor managed to get here. But if you don’t need me…” He turns to go.

“By all means, Commander. If feeding her means touching raw goat, that’s not a project I feel equipped to take on.”

Cullen laughs again and opens the cool box where Maggie’s dinner is stored. “You’re a bit delicate, aren’t you, Dorian? How are you going to manage having a wolf?”

“I don’t have a wolf. The Inquisitor does. I’m not a parent in this relationship. More like the drunken uncle, I should think.”

“If you say so.” Cullen drops the meat in a hideous little pile at the far end of the balcony, and Maggie tucks in excitedly. “I see she’s peed on the rug.”

“Twice now. Once more, and I think we’ll have it.”

Cullen gives him a bemused look. “You _want_ her to pee on the rug?”

“It’s a long story.”

The commander folds his arms, looking Maggie over with a serious expression. “I did my best to get her to go outside, but she wasn’t always that cooperative. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with dogs. To say nothing of wolves, of course.”

“That makes two of us.” Dorian sighs. “Maggie, Maggie. What are we going to do with you? Surely someone in this fortress knows about dogs?”

“You might try Dennet, although…” Cullen glances away awkwardly. “I’d keep her away from the stables. I took her down there the other day and it… did not go well.”

“In any case, I doubt Dennet has a soft spot for wolves after what happened on his lands. But thank you for the suggestion, and for looking after her. I know the Inquisitor appreciated it."

Cullen takes his leave, followed shortly by the servants, and at last Dorian is able to sink into the beautiful copper bathtub he convinced his lover to purchase in Val Royeaux. He takes his time soaking, sipping his wine and doing his best to embrace the fiction that he’s staked out a tiny corner of civilization.

He doesn’t hear the sound of footsteps, but Maggie does, and she scrambles across the room just as the Inquisitor appears at the top of the stairs. The pup goes positively berserk, racing around him in circles and jumping up, and before Dorian can object, the elf has knelt down and is letting the pup lick his face. Dorian snorts into his wine. “That is _appalling._ I hope you don’t intend to try kissing me after that.”

The elf ignores him, grinning and ruffling Maggie’s fur and murmuring sweet nothings in Elven.

“A boy and his dog,” Dorian says languidly. “Word of advice, _amatus_ , best keep this sort of display to your quarters. If anyone sees you like this, they’ll never take the Inquisition seriously again.”

“Look at you, Maggie. You’re a mess. Dorian hates it when you’re a mess. We’d better do something about that.” The elf glances over at Dorian, and there’s a wicked glint in his eye.

“ _Don’t you dare_ ,” Dorian hisses.

The elf picks up the wolf cub.

“I’ll freeze you both where you stand,” Dorian says, coiling against the edge of the tub and clutching his wine protectively.

“You said I should join you. We’re both very dirty, aren’t we, Maggie?”

Dorian continues hurling threats and curses, but the elf is undeterred, strolling up to the tub with his wolf cub and his pirate smile and that wicked gleam in his eye that has Dorian confusingly aroused and horrified all at once. He’s about to leap out of the tub when the elf laughs and puts Maggie down.

He pauses just long enough for Dorian to let out a sigh of relief. Then the bloody bastard flops into the tub himself, boots and all, sending water sloshing over the sides and into Dorian’s wine. A cloud of mud blooms in what’s left of the water, and Maggie starts lapping at the puddle on the floor.

“You’re right,” the elf says as the water slows its rocking. “This is nice. I’ve really been missing out.”

Dorian sighs. “This is because I called you a savage, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.” Pausing, he adds, “But this is.” And he whistles for Maggie.


	34. Kindred

“If I am to summarize, then,” Morrigan says, moving her knight to F3, “you wish to learn Elven in order to impress your lover.”

“ _Hmm._ ” Dorian runs a thumb along his mustache, contemplating the board. “I don’t think that’s _quite_ what I said. I can assure you he’s thoroughly impressed with me already. My aim is rather…” He pauses, half distracted by the game and half unsure how to articulate the thought.

“Connection.”

He glances up to find the witch eying him with her unnervingly keen gaze. Her mouth is curved in a faintly mocking smile, though Dorian has learned not to put too much store in that. The expression is a studied one, a confident mask behind which to conceal any number of more complex emotions. Rather like his own customary smirk, which he brandishes at her now. “Connection, yes. And dare I say, intimacy.”

Sharing such details with Morrigan doesn’t trouble him. Whom would she tell? As far as Dorian can see, her only companions apart from himself are the statues in the garden. Nor does he feel particularly exposed in front of her. Indeed, the deeper their acquaintance becomes, the more his attitude has tilted toward protectiveness. Morrigan’s vulnerability is intimately familiar, a near-perfect echo of his own, at least before a certain silver-haired elf came into the picture.

“And if you succeed in this undertaking?” she asks in her sultry singsong. “Will he return the favour? A tongue for a tongue, as it were?”

Dorian chuckles appreciatively. “Not a bad idea. I can see many advantages to the Inquisitor learning Tevene. Of course, he’d want to pore over Venatori tomes all day, whereas I’d be pressing him to read masterworks of literature. Especially the naughty ones. My homeland has a long and glorious tradition of deliciously ribald epic poetry. Tragically for you southerners, your pearl-clutching Chantry scholars have yet to translate the juiciest ones. Perhaps I ought to take on the project myself, as a public service.”

“Are you stalling, Pavus?”

He tuts and moves a pawn. “Don’t flatter yourself, my dear. Though I confess I am intrigued by your approach. You play as chaotically as my… as the Inquisitor. Down to your savage upbringing, I expect.”

Morrigan lets out a dark trill of a laugh. “You have no idea,” she says, shifting her tower to H4.

 _More than you think, perhaps._ Dorian recognizes only too well the pattern of her psychological wounds, all sharp edges and gaping voids, a constellation in the shape of an abusive parent. But that is not his business. He is no spirit of compassion; he has no way to heal her hurt, any more than his own. So he sticks to simpler fare. “Can you recommend some texts or not?”

“Of course, though whether your library will have copies, I cannot say. My mother’s reading list was… eclectic.” She lifts her gaze again, eyes narrowed in that guardedly curious way of hers. “I do wonder, however – why go to the trouble? Are you not… _intimate…_ already?”

A tricky question. Physically, of course, he and the elf are as intimate as it’s possible to be, but emotionally… There is much Dorian holds back from his lover. Past hurts, present insecurities, worries about the future. And yet in many ways, he is the forthcoming one. The elf has been free with his love, almost frighteningly so, but little else. “The Inquisitor is… the Inquisitor,” Dorian says carefully. “That title, and all it implies, is never far from his mind. The people need their saviour to be flawless and invulnerable, or so he believes, and that can be… a hard habit to break.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan says. “And a dangerous one.”

“It sounds as though you speak from experience.” Dorian pauses, the game quite forgotten now. “Tell me, what was she like? The Hero of Ferelden? Were you close?”

“We were not lovers, but…” She shrugs diffidently. “Yes, for a time, we were friends. She too was ever mindful of her duty. Convinced that to do good, she must _be_ good, in all things. And she too nursed her wounds in private, fearing that to show weakness would discourage her allies and embolden her enemies. It led her to the brink of despair more than once.” Her golden eyes appraise Dorian frankly. “‘Tis what you fear, is it not?”

“No,” Dorian says firmly, and a little too quickly. “You would be hard-pressed to find a more naturally even temperament. Despair is not in his makeup.”

“Whatever his nature before all this began, he is a mortal man. He bleeds as freely as any other. ‘Twould be folly to forget it.”

Her lecturing tone nettles him, even though he knows she’s right. “I thank you for your wisdom, Morrigan, but you needn’t fear. I don’t forget it for a second.”

“How could you, with what happened in the Frostback Basin fresh in your mind?”

Dorian goes very still. A brief silence settles over the board, like a dusting of snow. “What would you know of that, pray?”

“Some whispers travel far.”

“And what do they say, these whispers?”

“That the truth about Ameridan dealt the Inquisitor a heavy blow. That the wound went deep, and lingered. One must ask what such a blow might do to a man’s resolve.”

The smile Dorian gives her is one perfected by every Tevinter Altus as a matter of survival. Polished as a gemstone and sharp as a blade, a silent threat sheathed in silk. “We’ve been getting along so well, Morrigan,” he says mildly. “It would be a shame to spoil it now.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a long moment. Then Morrigan inclines her head once – in acknowledgement and, just maybe, approval. “Returning to the matter at hand,” she says, “your impulse to learn the Inquisitor’s mother tongue does you credit. ‘Tis no small gesture under the circumstances.”

Dorian moves another pawn. “You refer to the fact that we’re likely to be roasted by an archdemon before Satinalia?”

“A not unlikely outcome. But supposing you do escape such a fate, and Corypheus is defeated? What then?”

Dorian laughs humourlessly. He hasn’t even had that conversation with his lover; he’s certainly not going to have it with Morrigan. “If you’re asking what the future holds for the magister’s son and the Dalish hunter, I have no answers for you.” None he’s ready to confront, at any rate.

They finish the game – Morrigan slaughters him, again – and Dorian invites her for a drink. He’s half surprised when she agrees, and he’s quite looking forward to seeing the looks on the faces of the other patrons at the tavern when they arrive together. It sounds like the opening of a joke. _An evil magister and a Witch of the Wilds walk into a bar…_

They never get there. Instead, Dorian is distracted by a flash of silver hair in the courtyard: The Inquisitor stands with his arms folded, listening as Blackwall explains something to him. Varric is there too, and Cole, and… Maggie?

Curious, Dorian heads over, Morrigan in tow.

“I think you’ll be quite pleased,” Blackwall is saying. “We’ve made good progress today, haven’t we, Maggie?”

The pup’s tail swishes tentatively. She looks a little anxious, like a mageling about to face her exams.

Morrigan, meanwhile, pales with outrage. “ _This_ is the pup of which you spoke? This creature does not belong here, Inquisitor! She is a thing of the wilds.”

The elf nods solemnly. “She is indeed.”

“We found her in a cage,” Dorian explains. “Along with the rest of her litter. The mother and the rest of the pack were killed.”

“Even so…”

“The decision wasn’t taken lightly, Morrigan,” the elf says, a hint of reproach in his voice. “I’m fully aware of the trade-offs.”

“Of course you are, Inquisitor,” Dorian says. “Being that you are _Dalish_.” He arches an eyebrow pointedly at the witch. “And Maggie is no mere pet. More like a modern-day Knight’s Guardian.” The others won’t understand the reference, but Morrigan will.

“She wants to be here,” Cole adds. “We are her pack now.”

“That’s right, Cole,” the Inquisitor says. “We are.”

Morrigan still doesn’t look convinced, but she subsides, folding her arms and scowling.

There’s an awkward silence. Then Blackwall says, “Right, if I may?”

“By all means,” the elf says.

“Maggie.” Blackwall pronounces her name so deliberately that the pup pricks her ears. “Sit.”

Maggie sits.

“Maggie, come.”

Maggie comes.

“Now stay.” Blackwall walks away, and Maggie stays.

“Not bad, eh?” Varric says with a grin. “Took us all afternoon and a whole lot of treats, but we got there.”

Morrigan is not impressed. “What good are these parlour tricks? She is not some dull domestic creature. She is a _wolf_ , Inquisitor. If she is to be a Knight’s Guardian, she needs guidance from her own kind.”

The elf sighs. “What do you suggest, Morrigan? It’s not as though we can turn her loose. Even an experienced adult wouldn’t survive out here on its own, let alone a cub.”

“True enough,” Morrigan says.

A shiver of magic on his skin is all the warning Dorian has before the witch disappears in a cloud of writhing purple smoke. When it clears, a black she-wolf stands where the witch once was, her golden eyes fixed on Maggie. The pup cocks her head and whines. Then the she-wolf bounds away, and after a heartbeat’s hesitation Maggie leaps after her, both of them streaking straight through the front gate and out of sight.

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Then Varric says, “ _Holy shit._ ”

“Remarkable,” Dorian murmurs. “I’ve heard of such magic, but I’ve never seen it.”

The elf, for his part, is still staring at the gate where they disappeared, head tilted, brow puckered. “Did Morrigan just steal my wolf?”

“No,” says Cole. “She’ll be back, after she’s shown Maggie how to be.”

“Ah.”

“You’re taking this rather well,” Dorian says.

His lover shrugs. “Shapeshifting is not unknown among the Dalish. And it’s actually not a bad idea. I just wish she’d, you know, _asked_.”

“I have a feeling Morrigan isn’t accustomed to seeking permission,” Dorian says.

“Fucking mages,” is Blackwall’s take on the whole affair.

“Rude,” Dorian says. “Now, since I’ve apparently lost my drinking companion, who’s up for a pint?”

Everyone is up for a pint.

“I’ll say one thing,” Varric chuckles as they turn toward the tavern. “That’s gonna make one hell of a story.”


	35. Bellanaris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So look, at this point I think we all deserve a little light smut. If that’s not your thing, please feel free to skip this chapter and I will post a note at the top of the next one catching you up on the developments. But in the meantime… NSFW.

Dorian stares out over the bailey of Skyhold, watching the snow drift down in fat, swirling flakes. The soldiers on the ramparts below huddle deeper into their cloaks, their breath clouding as they light a brazier for warmth. Already, a thin white gauze blankets the fortress. The gate is still open, but not for long; the Commander’s orders are to close it during snowstorms, lest it freeze in place and leave the fortress vulnerable. Anyone caught outside after that point will be, as they say down south, _shit out of luck._ That includes a certain Witch of the Wilds and the wolf cub in her charge.

Dorian isn’t terribly concerned about Morrigan. If she wants to get into the fortress, she’ll find a way. At the very least, there’s a good chance her shapeshifting repertoire includes a flying creature or two. (Dorian is sick with envy about this. The closest he’s come to flying was a particularly memorable hallucination while high on divinorum.) Maggie, though, cannot fly, and Dorian frets that she won’t be able to wriggle through the portcullis. It would have been a tight fit already, but Maker only knows how shaggy her coat will have become after two days in the frigid wilderness.

“Are you still out here?”

Dorian jumps, sighs, and readjusts the blanket around his shoulders.

“Sorry.” The elf gives him a guilty smile. “I swear I don’t mean to. It’s just how I walk.” He steps out onto the balcony, glancing up at the whitewashed sky. “It’s snowing.”

“How observant of you.”

“I’m surprised you’re out here when it’s snowing.”

“That makes two of us.”

The elf lifts the fleece from Dorian’s shoulders and drapes it around his own, folding himself against Dorian’s back and wrapping them both up in the cocoon. “She’ll be all right,” he says, resting his chin on Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian starts to deny that he’s standing out on this frigid balcony worrying about a puppy, but it’s pointless. His lover can read him too well. “Of _course_ it had to start snowing,” he growls.

“Wolves are built for snow. It won’t bother her one bit.”

“You’re right, of course. I’m fretting needlessly.” Dorian sighs. “It’s this gloomy weather, I expect.”

The elf tucks his face into Dorian’s neck, lips brushing just below his ear. “Sounds like someone could use a distraction,” he says in a dangerous murmur that has Dorian’s nethers twitching even before the hand slides down between his legs.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly his body responds, swelling beneath the elf’s touch. Dorian closes his eyes as his lover nips at his ear, sending a delightful shiver over his skin. “Shall we take this inside?”

“What for? The snow is quite lovely, don’t you think?” Deft fingers tug at his laces, and a moment later, a warm hand slips inside his breeches.

Dorian’s eyes snap open in surprise. The wall walk below is crawling with soldiers, every one of whom has a clear line of sight to the Inquisitor’s balcony. He laughs, half incredulous, half nervous. “Why, Inquisitor, whatever are you doing?”

The only answer is a firm grip at the base of his cock, bringing him to full attention. The elf strokes once, gently, and Dorian’s breath catches. “We’re under a blanket,” the Inquisitor says idly, as though he wouldn’t much mind if they weren’t. He strokes again, more firmly this time, before settling into a slow, teasing rhythm, the outline of his arm moving up and down under the fleece.

“Yes, but this is perhaps not as stealthy as you think. I daresay the motion you’re making is”—Dorian’s breath hitches again as his lover passes callused fingers over the slick tip before resuming his languid stroking—“the motion is familiar… especially to… lonely... soldiers…” He’s losing the will to argue, losing the will to do anything but match that delicious rhythm, rocking into each stroke. The elf has always been very good at this. There’s nothing especially unusual about his technique, but he is unnervingly well attuned to his lover’s responses. _A good hunter reads the signs_ , he’d told Dorian once, and it must be true, because he always seems to know just how hard or how soft, how fast or how slow, how filthy or how sweet, and it’s terribly inconvenient and also fucking magic and Dorian is climbing toward ecstasy, and climbing and climbing, but it’s just out of reach, an epiphany he can’t quite glimpse, and _sweet Maker_ it aches, and he can hear the frantic pitch to his breath and he’s _so close_ but still the elf holds back just enough to keep him from release. “ _Fasta vass_ ,” he hisses between his teeth, “why are you such a tease?”

“Because you like it.” The elf jerks twice, and Dorian comes with a gasp that must be audible all the way to the guard tower.

There’s a stretch of silence broken only by Dorian’s panting, his breath clouding the air in furious little puffs.

“Warmer?” the elf murmurs, kissing his neck.

“You never cease to surprise, _amatus_. A quickie in the forest is one thing, but this… We might as well be on a stage up here.” Though if anyone’s paying attention, they’re doing a good job of pretending otherwise. Dorian’s glance rakes the battlements, but not a single head has tipped up in their direction.

The elf laughs. “I’m not quite so brazen as that. Note our strategic positioning behind the pillar.”

It’s true, Dorian realizes with a sigh of relief. Though the balcony rail doesn’t quite reach his waist, the pillar between sections adds a crucial few inches of height, enough to conceal what was going on under that blanket. “You could have told me,” Dorian says. “Spared me the worry.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, you didn’t seem all that worried.”

Dorian sorts himself out as best he can before extracting himself from the blanket. “Your turn,” he says, pushing the elf backward through the balcony doors. What he plans to do will very definitely be visible from the ramparts, strategically placed pillars or no. He locks the doors with a flick of his wrist, then sets about freeing the glorious erection straining the elf’s breeches.

Inquisitor Lavellan isn’t the only one who knows his way around the male body. Dorian can give as good as he gets, and he’s feeling vindictive, so he takes his sweet time, bringing the elf to the brink with nothing more than a clever tongue – only to pause for a glass of wine, leaving his lover in a quivering puddle of unfulfilled need.

He relents, of course. Eventually. By which point the elf is ravenous and Dorian is ready again and it all culminates in his second highly satisfactory orgasm of the day. And here it is not even dinner time.

Afterward, they curl up under the fur coverlet on the bed, tucked up like a pair of silver spoons in a cloth. “ _Ar lath ‘ma vhen’an_ ,” the elf whispers. “ _‘Ma vhen’an bellanaris._ ”

 _Aha_ , Dorian thinks. The perfect opportunity to try putting the last two days’ readings to good use. The first part is straightforward enough. _I love you, my heart._ Or, alternatively, _my home_. One word, though, he hasn’t encountered before.

“ _Bellanaris?_ ”

“Forever,” the elf says, kissing his shoulder.

_My heart forever. My home forever._

Dorian’s stomach clenches. It’s like falling through time, dropping from the sky into the exact moment when the elf first said _I love you_. The same panic, the same bright arc of denial. _You can’t. You mustn’t._

What is it with this man and his devastating post-coital declarations?

He accepted the elf’s love long ago. Returned it with all that he has, all that he is. But _forever._ Forever is a beast he can’t look in the eye, let alone welcome into his heart. Forever is like that moment of ecstasy, fiercely desired but just out of reach.

He’s been quiet for too long. The elf has certainly noticed. “ _Amatus._ ” Dorian rolls over and meets those blue-green eyes. “I love you with all my heart. But forever isn’t something I can promise. Neither of us can.”

“Because of Corypheus?”

“For a start. Cullen’s forces march for the Arbor Wilds as we speak. The end is in sight, one way or another. And even if we survive… I don’t know what comes after. For either of us.”

“Nor do I,” the elf says. “But I know that whatever it is, I will love you. Forever.”

Dorian’s heart aches so much it brings tears to his eyes. “Very well,” he says in a shaky whisper, “that much I can promise. Whatever happens, I will always love you. Forever.”

Bellanaris, he thinks as he winds his limbs around the elf. It sounds similar to the ancient Tevene word for beautiful. _Bella._ And also _bellum_ , for war. How very apt. They could all fit together into a single thought, couldn’t they, the Elven and the Tevene, twined together like halla horns on a promise necklace.

_Our love will forever be beautiful. And it will forever be war._


	36. Demigod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: Last episode, after sexytimes, Lavellan told Dorian he would love him forever. A distressed Dorian replied that for any number of reasons, neither of them could truly promise that. Lavellan agreed that they couldn’t know what the future held, but whatever happened, he would always love Dorian. Dorian mused to himself that with so much stacked against it, their relationship would always be a battle.

**Part Thirty-One: Demigod**

The snow blanketing the bailey at Skyhold is already scarred and filthy by the time a familiar figure strolls through the gate, a dark beast at her side. Dorian barely has time to register their presence before Maggie spots him and hurtles across the courtyard, looking for all the world as if she intends to take him down like prey and eat him for breakfast. She does, in fact, leap up to his chest, and Dorian would be quite cross about the muddy pawprints on his cloak, except that he is so delighted to see her that he even forgets to pretend he isn’t.

“Look at you,” he murmurs as he tries by turns to pat her and fend off her excited jumping. “You almost look like a proper wolf.” Though her proportions are still those of a puppy – snub nose, adorably oversized paws – she’s nearly as shaggy as an adult, and putting on bulk at an alarming rate.

“She has eaten well,” Morrigan says, her flinty voice tinted with smugness.

“And you?” Dorian’s gaze takes in her slender form in the manner of a mother hen worried her chick isn’t eating. “Still retaining your girlish figure, I see.” How in the world she manages not to freeze to death in those tattered rags is a matter of considerable mystery. Dorian is a firm believer in the primacy of fashion over comfort, but no one could possibly mistake Morrigan’s ensemble for fashionable.

“Is that your way of asking if I am in good health, Pavus?”

“I suppose it is.”

“I am well enough, thank you. Tell me, where is the Inquisitor? He will be displeased with me, I should think.”

“Would it have been so difficult to ask his permission?”

“And if he refused? The pup required my assistance. I would not withhold it. ‘Tis better to seek forgiveness after the deed is done than to defy a direct order, surely?”

“I’ll let you explain that reasoning to him yourself.” Dorian lifts his chin in the direction of the keep, where the Inquisitor is making his way down the stairs. He hasn’t noticed them yet, but Maggie has certainly noticed _him_ , and she flies at him like an arrow, nearly tackling him on the landing and making such a spectacle of her excitement that everyone in the crowded bailey stops to look. The elf, meanwhile, grins from ear to pointed ear, ruffling her fur with such boyish delight that his devoted followers are in danger of _aww_ ing themselves to death.

“The smile that lit up the world,” Morrigan says dryly.

“I did warn him not to do that. Terribly undignified. No one could possibly mistake him for the Herald of Andraste just now.”

She shrugs. “If his followers are prepared to overlook public displays of affection for his pet Tevinter, I daresay his pet wolf will not trouble them overmuch.”

Dorian snorts softly. “Touché. And believe me, we took that to new heights yesterday. Literally.” His glance strays to the balcony above, and he can’t suppress a sly grin.

Morrigan arches an eyebrow but otherwise leaves that alone.

“At any rate, it’s a good thing you’re back. We leave for the Arbor Wilds at dawn tomorrow, weather permitting.” Dorian hefts the vambrace he’s carrying. “I was on my way to the smithy a moment ago. If you’ve got anything that needs repairing, I’d get it into the queue. Though”—he looks her over again, lifting a critical eyebrow—“I don’t know that they’ll be much help with feathers and random tat. Honestly, my dear, you look like a crow that’s been half eaten by a fox.”

She frowns. “You are a very smug creature, aren’t you?”

“I should hope so. False modesty is such a bore.” He returns his attention to Maggie and the Inquisitor. The pup has rolled onto her back, and the elf is apparently trying to decide whether he should rub her belly.

“Already she puts her training to use,” Morrigan observes.

“How so?”

“In exposing the most vulnerable part of her body, she shows submission to her alpha.”

“Exposing her belly shows submission?” His glance falls to Morrigan’s bare midriff.

She scowls. “I see the witticism on the tip of your tongue, Pavus. If you value your health, you will swallow it whole.”

“You’re no fun at all.” This is a lie. Morrigan is great fun. Teasing her is every bit as delightful as teasing Cassandra – and just as dangerous.

The longer the elf lingers on the stairs, the more the faithful begin to gather around. It’s rare for the Inquisitor to stand still long enough for them to get near him, and the bolder among them appear anxious to take advantage of the opportunity.

“Is it true, Your Worship, that you’re leaving for the Arbor Wilds tomorrow?”

Dorian doesn’t see who asks the question. There’s too many of them now, gathering like an audience around a dais. Too late, the elf realizes he’s trapped; if he leaves now, he’ll seem haughty and ungracious.

“It is, yes,” he says, straightening from his crouch.

“And Corypheus? Will he be there?” A different voice now.

“It’s possible.”

“What about the archdemon, Your Worship? The one that destroyed Haven?”

The elf hesitates, his glance skimming the crowd as if gauging the mood.

“They are afraid,” Morrigan says in an undertone. “He must reassure them, if he would have them ready to face what comes.”

“He knows,” Dorian murmurs. He watches as his lover dons the Inquisitor mask, his features smoothing into a picture of serene confidence. And when he speaks again, it’s in his Inquisitor voice, firm and pitched to carry. “We cannot know what awaits us in the Arbor Wilds,” he says, stepping to the edge of the landing to make himself more visible.

All across the bailey, voices hush, every head turning. People emerge from the outbuildings and peer down from the ramparts. Even the distant hammering of the smithy falls silent.

“I know you’re frightened,” he says. “Perhaps I ought to tell you that you needn’t be, but I know you’re strong enough to hear the truth. And the truth is this: Corypheus is a wounded animal. The Inquisition has dealt him blow after blow, and what he does now, he does out of desperation. We can be proud of that. But every hunter knows that a wounded animal is often the most dangerous. There is no doubt the fight ahead will be a hard one.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “But there are other truths I learned as a hunter. That a mother defending her cubs is the fiercest creature there is. That the strength of the wolf is in the pack. That the eagle sets his course by the heavens, and so always flies true. That is who we are. Our strength lies in what we defend, and who stands at our side as we defend it. It lies in our faith and our determination. These things cannot be defeated on any field of battle. So whatever happens in the Arbor Wilds, we will endure, and we will take the fight to Corypheus as many times as it takes to banish him from the world forever.”

Judging from the reaction, it's exactly what his people needed to hear. There's an energy in the crowd now; men and women glance at one another, trading looks of pride and resolve.

“ _Andraste bless you, Your Worship._ ”

“ _We will not falter._ ”

“ _Maker protect you._ ”

“ _We are with you, Herald. To the end._ ”

He receives their prayers and devotion with a grave nod before turning and heading back into the keep, Maggie in tow.

“He did well,” Morrigan says. “Even better than at the Winter Palace, perhaps.” She tilts her head, considering the still-buzzing crowd. “They look on him as half a god himself. How strange it must be, having a demigod for a lover.”

Dorian laughs hollowly. “It is, rather. Enough to give one a raging inferiority complex, quite frankly.”

“The great Dorian Pavus, inferior?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Surely not.”

“It’s a lot to measure up to. To be…” He winces and stirs on his feet. “To be worthy of, I suppose. To date, my main accomplishments consist of obscure research triumphs and an unmatched record of expulsions from the world’s premier magical institutions.”

Morrigan laughs. “‘Tis a base from which to build, at least.”

 _Into what, exactly?_ Dorian knows one thing for certain: He can’t spend his life in the shadow of a demigod, no matter how much he adores him. He needs a purpose of his own, a life’s work he can be proud of. It’s what drove him to the Inquisition in the first place.

 _There you go again, Pavus_ , he thinks. _Fretting about the future when it’s very likely you’ll be dead by this time next week._

Tomorrow, they march for the Arbor Wilds. He has little doubt Corypheus will put in an appearance, and his dragon too. _That_ is the only future he needs to worry about, at least for now.

In the meantime, he has a vambrace to fix.


	37. A Memory: Craving

It had been four days and eighteen hours since Inquisitor Lavellan kissed Dorian Pavus in the library, not that anyone was counting. Certainly, Dorian wasn’t counting, because Dorian wasn’t the sort of man who _pined_. Pining was for poets and saps, for blushing maidens and awkward squires – and, perhaps, for adolescent mages just coming to the confusing and rather disappointing realization that while several of the aforementioned blushing maidens were pining for him, he was busy pining for squires, who were pining for maidens.

 _Pining_ was overrated and undignified and not at all the sort of thing you wanted hanging over you when you were trying to get on with the business of battling darkspawn magisters and their pet archdemons. That kind of distraction could get you killed, as it almost had today, when Dorian had been so busy admiring the lithe athleticism of a certain silver-haired elf that he very nearly found himself run through. His barrier had thinned to almost nothing, but he was far enough away from the fray that he’d thought himself safe. Then the Inquisitor had glanced in his direction, and the sudden widening of his eyes was all the warning Dorian got before the elf whipped a dagger over his shoulder, so close that he felt the breeze of its passing on his unprotected neck. A wet _splat_ sounded just behind him, and Dorian whirled to find a bandit staggering backward, sword tumbling from his hands as he clawed at the dagger buried in his eye. Dorian dispatched him with a sizzling arc of electricity and a snarl on his lips. Then he turned and met the Inquisitor’s eye once more, and the relief he saw there was genuinely touching and not at all likely to improve his concentration problem.

As if all this weren’t bad enough, the Qunari had noticed. The two of them were resting by the side of the road, watching the Inquisitor scout up a nearby bluff, when Bull said, “You keep staring at him like that, he’s going to burst into flames. Or you are, when one of your spells goes haywire.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

Bull smirked. “Ben-Hassrath, remember? Not that I need to be. Subtlety isn’t really your thing, Dorian. You should try wearing a helmet. That way, you can ogle him all you like and no one will notice.”

“And cover up these lovely features?”

“The Inquisitor knows how pretty you are. You won’t stay that way without a helmet. Just my two coppers.”

“This is very odd advice coming from someone who minces about without any armour at all.”

“I’m a little meatier than you. And I like my scars. Every one of them is a story, and they all have the same ending. The Iron Bull fucking killed you.”

“Why, it’s practically a lullaby.”

“Helps me sleep like a baby.”

Dorian thought he’d successfully steered the conversation away from the Inquisitor, but then the Qunari added, “I’d let it go, though, if I were you. Sleeping with the boss is a bad idea, even if he wants to sleep with you.”

Dorian was increasingly persuaded this was the case, though that might have been wishful thinking. “Must it always be a bad idea?” he asked, a question posed as much to himself as to his companion.

“That shit can get messy. Things go well, you’re distracted. They don’t go well, there’s drama. Either way, a whole lot of people disapprove.”

Dorian snorted softly. “That ship has sailed, wouldn’t you say? I’m already distracted, and as for disapproval, half of Skyhold was whispering about us even before that business in the library.” (Four days, eighteen hours and forty minutes ago.)

“Fair point.” Bull shrugged. “And I can’t say I blame you. Truth is, if he batted those pretty eyes at me, I’d probably plough him into next week, bad idea or no.” He yawned and stretched, his straining muscles seeming as if they would burst right through the skin.

“I’m not sure he would survive a ploughing from you,” Dorian said wryly, eying the Qunari’s massive frame.

Bull just smiled and walked away.

Unsurprisingly, this talk of ploughing pretty Inquisitors did nothing to alleviate Dorian’s craving. And though he did his best to mind his own affairs once they got back to camp, his eyes betrayed him, stalking the elf from one end of camp to the next as he went about his business.

Dorian was no stranger to addiction. His first love was the Fade, the electric shiver of its touch when he drew on its power. Once he’d discovered how to do it, his six year-old self couldn’t stop, drawing it back to him again and again until his exasperated mother, tired of having her favourite furnishings accidentally burnt to a crisp, tried to convince him he’d go blind if he overdid it. It would be many years before he learned how similar the sensation was to sexual pleasure, but even as a boy, he’d understood that a person could disappear into that need if he let himself.

After that it was alcohol, and then sex, and even, for a short time, cards. There was Rilienus, of course, and after him, Vitus, whose violent rejection had left scars both emotional and physical (and who taught Dorian that deep-seated self-loathing, however broodingly attractive, was a dangerous trait in a lover.) The combined effect of these experiences was to instill in Dorian a healthy dread of addiction in all its forms, so the familiar ache in his breast ought to have set off all manner of internal alarms. Because the Qunari was perfectly right: It was a Bad Idea. It was, in fact, the Worst Idea.

And yet.

All he wanted was to get the elf alone for a few minutes. To have those magnificent eyes fixed on him and him alone. See those full lips curved in a smile that hinted at something naughty just beneath the surface, begging to be discovered. _Just a few minutes_ , Dorian told himself. _Just one little taste_ , _and I am content. Andraste grant me this, and I swear I won’t touch a silver hair on his head._

Ugh, was he praying now? Pathetic.

Pathetic or no, it seemed to have worked, because the elf was making his way over. He looked tired, raking a hand through his short-cropped hair in a way that left it standing deliciously askew, as if he’d just been properly fucked. Dorian wanted to thread his own fingers through that hair so very badly, but he’d promised Andraste.

“Quite a day,” the elf said with a sigh.

“Aren’t they all? Though I do believe that’s the closest I’ve come to being skewered, at least so far. Thank you for that. I don’t fancy being mage-on-a-stick.” And because he couldn’t help himself: “Not _that_ sort of stick, at any rate.”

The elf threw a glance over his shoulder, as if gauging their proximity to the nearest pair of ears. Alas, there were several within hearing distance, so he just said, “You gave me a fright.”

“Apologies. Terribly careless on my part, but I’m afraid I’ve been rather distracted of late.”

“Distracted?”

Dorian answered with his eyes, holding the other man’s gaze until a hint of colour touched the elf’s cheeks. “I find myself anxious to continue our… _conversation_ … from before. In the library.”

“I’d like that,” the elf said with quiet intensity.

Dorian had suspected as much, but having it confirmed still stirred embers inside him. “When do you think it might be arranged?”

“I don’t know. It’s…” The elf’s gaze took in the surrounding farm, which managed to be both wide open and rather crowded. “Not possible here, I don’t think.”

Dorian sighed theatrically. “I knew there was something I didn’t like about this camp. I thought it was the smell of druffalo shit, but it turns out it’s the lack of suitable venues for inappropriate assignations.”

“Hopefully not too inappropriate,” the elf said with that endearing hint of self-consciousness.

“I will let you be the judge of that, Inquisitor. Just know that I am your humble servant.” Dorian bowed, one side of his mouth curled in what he knew to be a perfectly devastating smile.

He felt a tug of longing as the elf walked away, as though a cord stretched between them had gone taut. There was a hook at either end of that cord, he was convinced. That ought to have been a comfort, but instead, it just made the craving worse. Knowing that the slightest pull on his end of the rope would yank the elf into his arms made it that much harder to resist the temptation.

But resist it he must, at least for now. If this was going to happen, it had to be on the elf’s terms.

Maker, he hated waiting.


	38. Dragonslayer

Dorian is still dreaming about the Temple of Mythal.

It’s the same every night. They’re standing in the Petitioner’s Chamber. It smells of decaying leaves and the unmistakable tang of blood. Half a dozen sentinel elves are arrayed behind them, armour gleaming, bows taut, faces obscured within their hoods. Abelas glares down at them from the mezzanine, as if he might see into their souls through looking alone.

It’s just the two of them. Dorian and his _amatus_. He has a nagging sense there should be others with them, but he can’t quite recall. He can feel the magic of this place thrumming along his skin, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and he’s thrilled and terrified in equal measure.

His lover is thrilled too – at first. He asks one question after another, eyes bright with wonder, soaking up every bit of knowledge the ancient elf is willing to share. Dorian, meanwhile, listens in astonishment as Abelas obliterates the cornerstone of the imperial legacy with a single sentence.

_The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan._

He likens Dorian’s ancestors – his smug, supremacist ancestors – to carrion crows feasting upon a corpse, and Dorian isn’t sure whether he ought to laugh or cry.

But all that is forgotten a moment later, when the Inquisitor implores the ancient elf to share his wisdom with their people.

Abelas sneers. “ _Our_ people? The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing _vallaslin_?" He stabs a contemptuous finger at the Inquisitor. “ _You are not my people._ ”

They’re the cruelest words he could have chosen. Worse than anything the Nightmare said to them in the Fade. Dorian sees his lover stiffen, a spasm of confusion and pain crossing his features before he masters himself. It’s heartbreaking, and Dorian doesn’t even try to hide the fury in his eyes when he looks back up at Abelas. Not that the sentinel gives one shiny fuck.

Suddenly Morrigan is there, and Maggie too, and they’re both full-grown wolves, teeth bared and snarling, their yellow eyes fixed murderously on Abelas. They bound up the stairs to the mezzanine, and the sentinel flees deeper into the temple.

At this point, Dorian realizes something isn’t right. He’s fairly certain this is a dream – which would be a relief, because that would mean Abelas isn’t real and he didn’t just say something horrible to the man Dorian loves and also the entire history of his own people wasn’t a giant lie.

They follow their sentinel guide through the inner sanctum – she’s not bothered about her boss being chased by wolves, apparently – and it’s the most hauntingly beautiful thing Dorian has ever seen. An ancient elven shrine, _intact_. He can’t even imagine what must be going through his lover’s mind. His lover, who is fascinated by all things arcane. Who’s spent years penning a history of the elves – half of which, he must now suspect, is wrong. The Inquisitor drifts through the glittering chambers in silence, craning his neck this way and that, reaching out with his fingertips to brush the iridescent tiles. He lingers before the mosaic dedicated to Sylaise, his hand straying to the _vallaslin_ twined over his left eye.

_You are not my people._

Solas is watching him too (when did Solas get here?) and even he seems to understand the cruelty of Abelas’s words – to any Dalish, but to this one in particular. Several times, he seems on the cusp of saying something, but he doesn’t. He probably suspects any words from him would ring hollow, given the contempt he himself has shown for the Inquisitor’s people. _Go with that instinct, Solas_ , Dorian thinks, fully aware that he’s displacing his anger and not at all troubled by it.

When they reach the Well of Sorrows, they find Abelas hemmed in by two very cross-looking wolves. They’re crouched low, ears flat and eyes blazing, muzzles drawn back over gleaming white fangs. The Inquisitor calls them off with a soft whistle, and though they both cease their snarling, Morrigan continues to prowl around the sentinel in a slow, menacing circle.

A tense negotiation ensues. Abelas would like them to go away, despite the fact that this will almost certainly result in Corypheus claiming the well. Morrigan, who is human again, wants to drink from it. Bull thinks the Inquisitor should do it. The latter, to Dorian’s astonishment, thinks the well ought to be destroyed.

These are all _terrible_ ideas.

Abelas relents – drink from it if you must, et cetera – and turns to go. At which point Dorian finds himself making a similar plea to the one his lover made earlier.

“The Imperium went to great lengths to expunge elven history. You might be the last to know the truth.”

The sentinel’s amber eyes fix on him. “Would the ‘elves’ of your lands listen to the truth?”

“They might. Would it hurt to try?”

“It very well may, shemlen, yes.” He turns away again. Conversation over.

Anger flares in Dorian’s belly. “That’s it, then? It _might_ destabilize the status quo – a condition, I feel compelled to point out, that is perfectly horrible for thousands of elves – so best to leave things as they are? What rubbish. You don’t give a damn about those elves or anyone else. All you care about is a past that’s been dead for a thousand years.”

Wait. He didn’t say that. He’d _wanted_ to, but he didn’t dare antagonize the sentinel at that critical moment, when it seemed they’d finally persuaded him to stand down.

But here, in the dream, he says it, and the ancient elf turns back to him. “Why should I care for them, shemlen? What are they to me?”

“People. They are _people_ , and they are suffering.”

“Because of your kind.”

“Yes, because of my kind. Because of people exactly like me who’ve spent their entire lives looking the other way, even though they know deep down it’s wrong. They tut over their news pamphlets at the latest atrocity and feel smug and self-righteous in their disapproval, but they don’t lift a finger to change it. It’s so much easier to go on as you always have, safe in your little bubble. But if someone were to burst that bubble… If it were no longer possible to just go on as you always have, swaddled in your delusions of grandeur and entitlement…”

The sentinel’s amber eyes bore into him. “It sounds as if you know what must be done. Why look to others to do it?”

The question catches Dorian off guard. He tries to respond, but his throat forms no sound. And then he realizes it’s not Abelas speaking to him, it’s Solas. The apostate waits for an answer, eyes piercing, brows drawn severely, but still Dorian can’t find his voice. He turns to the Inquisitor, but his lover’s face is oddly blurred. And not just his face; his entire body is faded, like a painting bleached by the sun, and as Dorian reaches for him, he vanishes.

That’s when Dorian wakes up.

Sweating, heart pounding – and for the past two nights, with a lump of grief in his throat, which only tightens when he rolls over and looks at his sleeping lover.

Because the sentinel in his dream is right. Dorian knows what must be done. It’s the only way to stop the nightmare – in his head, and in his homeland. He’s known it for some time now, ever since that night by the fire after they’d freed the slaves.

_Whatever promises we make to each other, that dragon will always lie between us._

_Dragons can be slain._

He knew even then what the price would be if he chose to take up that sword, and it’s nigh-on unbearable. But if he’s not willing to pay it, is he really any better than the rest of his countrymen? All of them _soporati_ , sleepwalking through life because it’s so much easier than fighting for what’s right. Dorian has already blown up his life once because he refused to live a lie. That was for selfish reasons. If he flinches now, when it really matters…

The elf is sleeping on his side. Dorian curls up against him, fighting the urge to cling so tightly it will wake him. “‘ _Ma vhen’an bellanaris_ ,” he whispers. “Whatever comes.”


	39. Precious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In better days, this chapter wouldn’t come with a tag. But since I know many of us are under a lot of stress right now, a mild warning: If you’re feeling a little fragile today, you may want to put this chapter off for another time. Stay well out there.

Dorian hasn’t seen the elf in four days.

Not properly. A glimpse here and there, of course. As a flash of silver hair crossing the bailey below his window. As a streak of blue silk vanishing through a doorway in the main hall. He’s heard his lover’s soft tenor floating up from Solas’s chamber below. But that’s as close as he’s gotten. Each time he hears footsteps on the stairs to the library, he glances up from his book, and for a fleeting moment, his traitorous heart conjures the illusion of those blue-green eyes, that secret smile that belongs only to Dorian. Each time is a fresh disappointment, another stone added to the pit of his stomach. He read somewhere that certain birds deliberately swallow sharp stones to aid their digestion. He’s doing the same, he supposes, each little disappointment grinding against the others, helping him to digest the painful truth: The elf isn’t coming. Not today, and maybe not ever again.

 _You have only yourself to blame._ Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut? Corypheus is coming for them. Their remaining lifespans can probably be measured in days. What in the Maker made him think _now_ was the time to inform the elf of his future plans?

_I should go back, shouldn’t I? To Tevinter. Once this is done. If we’re still alive._

He can still picture the stunned look in his lover’s eyes. As if he’d just found a knife in his belly, and Dorian’s hand on the hilt. “You would just leave? What about…?”

“Us? Trust me, _amatus_ , it would give me no pleasure to leave your side.” _But…_

Dorian had done his best to explain it in terms the leader of the Inquisition would understand. The elf had sacrificed so much to save the world. Now it was Dorian’s turn to sacrifice, to try to save his homeland from itself.

The elf offered to go with him. Dorian made a joke of it. _We both know you’d just end up doing it all yourself._ The truth – _because you’d most likely be horribly murdered and/or used in ritual sacrifice_ – did not seem like the right note to strike.

The surrender was graceful, even for a man made of grace. “If that’s what you need to do.”

Dorian had forced a smile. “There you go, breaking my heart.” And it _did_ break his heart. To meet so little resistance, after everything they’d shared… It wasn’t what he expected, but it was probably for the best. At least they could take comfort in each other for a little while longer, until Corypheus was defeated. That’s when the real heartbreak would hit, but that pain could be deferred.

So he thought, at any rate. But now, four days later, it’s clear he misjudged everything about that encounter, and Dorian is beginning to wonder if he’ll meet his Maker without ever holding the elf in his arms again.

Footsteps on the stairs. _Don’t look up_. There’s no point in torturing himself with foolish hope. _It’s not him. If it were, you’d never hear him coming. Don’t. Look. Up._

Dorian looks up.

It’s not him.

It’s one of Leliana’s messengers, on his way up to the rookery. Dorian’s gaze follows him dully, and a moment later the spymaster’s voice floats down from above.

“Have you informed the Inquisitor?” Her words are unusually clear. She must be leaning out over the railing directly above Dorian’s nook.

“I did, yes. He was remarkably stoic, considering. It was a little unnerving, actually.”

“Did the Commander give an estimate of when our forces will arrive?”

“The day after tomorrow. But from what it says here…”

“Yes. Wycome may fall before then.”

 _Wycome?_ Dorian sits up a little straighter. Isn’t that the Marcher city that was being poisoned with red lyrium? From what little he knows of the affair, Clan Lavellan is still there, protecting the city elves from reprisals.

“If the Marchers attack with a force this size…” The messenger sounds uneasy. “The Inquisitor’s clan…”

Dorian’s blood runs cold. In a heartbeat, he’s on his feet and taking the stairs two at a time. The messenger whirls around at the sound of his boots, but Leliana doesn’t look at all surprised to see him.

“Can I help you with something?” she asks blandly, hands folded behind her back.

“Let’s skip the charade, shall we? You know perfectly well why I’m here. Is there nothing to be done?”

“Nothing.”

“Are they all in the city? His entire clan?”

“His entire clan. His keeper. His sister. Everyone he has ever known or cared for in this world, at least before coming here. If our forces don’t get there in time, they will all die.” She delivers the words ruthlessly, her gaze pinning him like an insect to a board. It was no accident that he overheard, Dorian realizes. She wanted him to hear.

He feels sick. “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Leliana glances at her messenger, and he withdraws without another word. She waits until he’s out of earshot before turning back to Dorian. “It is not for me to inform you of the Inquisitor’s business,” she says coldly. “And if you wanted to be there for him, perhaps you shouldn’t have told him you were leaving him on the eve of the final battle.”

He stiffens. “I did no such thing.”

“No? You didn’t tell him you’d be returning to Tevinter without him?”

Dorian doesn’t bother to ask how she knows. Half the ears in this building probably belong to her. “I am not _leaving him_. We will be apart for a time, but that’s hardly—”

“Take comfort in your semantics if you like. It’s been days since the two of you last spoke. That says enough about how _he_ understands the matter.”

Heat flashes to Dorian’s face. Anger? Humiliation? Even he isn’t sure. “My relationship with the Inquisitor is my business.”

“No,” she snaps, “it is not. It is the business of this entire fortress, and you well know it.” She shakes her head and looks away. “I am partly to blame for all this. I knew you would be a problem. From the moment you arrived, I knew it. I saw the way he looked at you. The way you looked at him. I should have taken care of it there and then. Seen you onto a ship, or to the bottom of the sea. But I was sentimental. And here we are.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

“I don’t know. He does not confide in me. He does not confide in anyone but you, not truly.” She fixes him with her cold gaze once more. “Which is why you will go to him now, Dorian Pavus, and you will beg his forgiveness, and you will see him through whatever comes with his clan. Because if they are slaughtered and he is left with no one in this world, not even his self-absorbed peacock of a lover, he _will_ crumble. And then we are all doomed.”

Dorian wants to argue. To tell her to take her threats and insults and shove them up her arse. But his anger doesn’t matter right now, nor his pride. _She_ doesn’t matter. So he turns away without another word, following the spiral stairs down and down.

He crosses the main hall in swift strides, only to hesitate outside the Inquisitor’s door. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. If his lover needs space, it isn’t for Dorian to breach it. But Leliana is right about one thing: The Inquisitor shouldn’t have to face this alone.

He finds the elf on the balcony, of course. Maggie lies at his feet, unusually subdued. She raises her head at Dorian’s approach, tail thumping tentatively, but the Inquisitor doesn’t turn. He stares out over the mountains, hands propped against the rail.

Dorian has no idea what to say. Where does he even begin? “Are you all right?”

The elf turns, and his expression is perfectly serene. “I’m fine, thank you. Is there something you need?”

Dorian sighs. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I thought it for the best.”

“There's no need to be sorry.” Dorian steps to his lover’s side, eying him with concern. “Leliana told me about Wycome. You must be beside yourself.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it, so there’s no point in worrying.”

Dorian stares at him in consternation. _But your sister. Your entire clan…_ He doesn’t say it aloud. It would only make things worse. “I’m here for you,” he says instead. “Whatever you need.”

Something unreadable passes through the elf’s eyes. He looks away, leaning on the railing once more. “Thank you, but I think it’s best if we just carry on as we are.”

“Carry on as we are? Not speaking, you mean?”

“We’re speaking.”

“Don’t be glib. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

He sighs. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for here, Dorian.”

“I told you. I want to be here for you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. But the best thing you can do for me is to be ready for Corypheus. That’s all that matters right now.”

“ _Amatus_ …”

“I’m not your _amatus_ anymore.”

The words sink like a stone to the bottom of a very deep well.

It takes Dorian a moment to find his voice. “Of course you are.”

No response. An airy silence hangs over the mountains. Somewhere nearby, a raven caws.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Dorian says roughly. “When I said I was leaving… This isn’t what I meant.”

The elf’s brows draw together, as if he’s staring at a puzzle he can’t solve. “What did you expect would happen? Did you want me to beg you to stay?”

“Perhaps I did,” Dorian says. And he hates himself for it.

“What would it have changed? Redeeming your homeland is an admirable goal, Dorian. You have the strength and the talent to do it. Why would I stand in the way of that? After everything you’ve done to support me here, how could I not do the same for you, in whatever form you asked it of me? You asked me to let you go. That’s what I’m doing.” There’s no anger in his voice. Hardly any emotion at all. _A little unnerving_ , the messenger had called it. The man has a gift for understatement.

“You have every right to be furious with me…”

“But I’m not. Truly. I’m proud of you, Dorian. What you’re planning to do is very brave, and I know how hard it was for you to tell me what was in your heart. Your timing leaves a little to be desired, but I’ll manage.”

Still in those perfectly measured tones. But Dorian sees the way he’s gripping that railing, as if his life depended on it. “This thing you do,” Dorian says. “It’s not healthy.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You stand there cool as you please, as though you’re not screaming on the inside. But I know you, _amatus_. I know how much you love your sister. Your clan. I know how deeply you…” The words stick in his throat; he swallows past them. “You’re hurting. Let me help you.”

Blue-green eyes meet his, and it's like looking into a cracked eluvian, closed and dark, offering no hint of what lies behind. “I can’t. If I open that door even a little…” He shakes his head and turns away again. “I don’t dare, not now.”

“But—”

“ _Please, Dorian._ ” He shuts his eyes, gripping the railing so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

Dorian stares at him helplessly, but there’s nothing more to be said. Except perhaps... “I’m sorry. So very sorry, my love.”

On his way out, Dorian’s glance strays to the bed, and a flash of gold catches his eye. An amulet hangs from the candle stand on the bedside table; even from here, Dorian recognizes the intertwined halla horns. It’s the Dalish promise necklace they found in the Emerald Graves. Dorian didn’t even realize he’d kept it, and the sight of it hanging there, beside the bed, almost breaks him.

He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before the ache in his throat becomes too much, and he has to brace a hand against the wall for support.

The irony of it all washes over him, as bitter as bile. From the start, he’s never really known what to do with this thing. A relationship? A _healthy_ relationship? The elf’s love was a gift too precious to imagine, unlooked for and undeserved, and he’s lived in fear of the inevitable moment when it would be taken from him. But that’s not what happened in the end. The precious thing wasn’t taken from him. He broke it.

Of course he did.

Dorian sits on the bottom stair and rests the back of his head against the cool stone. On the other side of the door, he can hear the main hall going about its business. Upstairs, the wind whistles through a gap in the stones. Here, in this in between place, he is alone.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets the tears come.


	40. Vox populi

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sparkler.” Varric picks up the jug and pours Dorian another pint. “It was always a lot of pressure to put on a relationship. Especially considering that you’re… you know, _you_.”

“Thank you, Varric. That’s tremendously comforting.” Dorian takes a swallow of ale, grimaces, and takes another. As the saying goes, if you’re going to be sad, you might as well be drunk and sad. Wait, is that a saying? Probably. It _should_ be, because it’s _true_. Also true: this ale is bloody awful.

“A week,” Sera says. “Two at the outside. That’s how long before Coriffyfish shows up, and you couldn’t keep your trap shut until then? Just _had_ to tell him you’d be pissing off when all this is done? Well done you. Bloody brilliant.”

“That’s me. Bloody brilliant. By the way, have I mentioned how glad I am to hear all of your thoughts? Extremely helpful.”

“If you didn’t want our thoughts, maybe you should’ve kept your sad little tale to yourself. Oh wait, you’re _rubbish_ at that.”

“Why don’t you just tell him you fucked up?” Bull suggests. “He’ll probably forgive you.”

“Tried that,” Dorian says. “Didn’t work.”

Bull narrows his good eye. “Really? You said _I, Dorian Pavus, fucked up, and I humbly submit myself for judgment_?”

“Well, no, obviously, the language I used was a good deal more… Hold on, what do you mean by _judgment_? Is this a bondage thing?”

“Hey, if you can manage that, you’re winning.”

This is not helping. Not even a little.

“I think what you did was brave, Dorian,” Blackwall says gravely. “You told the truth. I know better than most how hard that can be, and the consequences aren’t always pretty, but it’s never the wrong choice.”

Sera blows a raspberry. “Erm, yeah it is, _Thom._ Because our formerly kick-arse leader is now The World’s Saddest Assassin, and our best mage is Mopey Moustache, and the two of them make me want to cry in my beer or punch someone, or cry and _then_ punch someone, and if Corifuckus was to turn up right now we’d be properly buggered.”

Dorian props his chin on his hand and gives her a sloppy smile. “Do you really think I’m the best mage?”

“All right, big guy,” Bull says, pushing back his chair. “You’ve had enough. Let’s get you to bed.”

“An intriguing proposal, but I’m afraid I’m spoken for. _Oh wait._ ” Dorian laughs bitterly, but he also lets himself be hauled up out of his chair, because if he keeps laughing like this he’s going to start sobbing and that would be terribly undignified.

The night air is bracingly cold, and Dorian instantly perks up, which is a shame. The alcohol dulls the edges of his hurt into something almost tolerable. Sobriety, and the cutting clarity it brings, is about as welcome as a venereal disease.

“So,” Bull says as they walk. “You gonna tell me about this little errand you’ve got Dalish running for you in Val Royeaux?”

Dorian looks at him blankly for a moment, and then he remembers. “Ah, yes.” He snorts. “A stupid idea. Don’t know what I was thinking. I’d call her back if I could.”

“Do me a favour. Next time you want to send one of my guys somewhere, ask me.”

Dorian starts to answer, but then he spies a familiar figure coming toward them, her white skin practically glowing in the moonlight. “Back so soon? Did you find what you were—”

“Fool! What have you done?” Morrigan’s golden eyes blaze, and she plants a hand on her hip in a manner that reminds Dorian unnervingly of his mother.

“It’s a rather long list, I’m afraid,” he says languidly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Do not trifle with me. I speak of the Inquisitor, of course.”

“Do you? How refreshing. I wonder, is there anyone else at Skyhold who would like to share their opinion on my relationship with the Inquisitor?” Dorian spreads his arms and does a little turn, addressing himself to the courtyard. “Anyone at all? Surely there’s a scribe I haven’t heard from yet. Or a scullery maid? Come now, don’t be shy.”

Bull’s glance cuts from Dorian to the witch and back. “I’ll leave you two to sort this out.” He pats Dorian’s shoulder in a manner clearly designed to drive him into the ground like a fence post. “Good luck, big guy.”

Morrigan’s eyes track the Qunari as he walks away. Then they snap back to Dorian, narrowing into little yellow blades of doom. “Are you intoxicated?”

“Extremely.”

She clucks her tongue in disgust. “This will not do. I require your assistance.”

“I’m not in an assisting sort of mood. Anyway, shouldn’t you be at some ancient elven shrine?”

“We have only just returned. We made a cosy couple, the Inquisitor and I. Imagine my surprise on learning it would be just the two of us. ‘Tis odd, I said to myself. The Inquisitor does not go anywhere without his pet Tevinter. It took two days to extract the truth from him.”

“Which was what, pray?”

“That his fool of a lover had chosen now, of all moments, to break his heart.”

Dorian swallows hard. “Did he say that?” he asks quietly.

“Not in so many words. Indeed, he spoke few words of any kind. One suspects he would have passed the entire journey in silence had he not felt sorry for me.”

“Sorry for you?” Dorian frowns. “Are you all right? Is it something to do with the Well?” He’s been worried about her ever since she drank from that damn thing, but if it’s done her any harm, he can’t see it.

“You need not be concerned.”

“What happened at the shrine?”

“That is a conversation for another time. Right now, I require your assistance, as I told you.” Her expression turns shrewd, and more than a little smug. “I believe I can match the power of Corypheus’s dragon. But it will require me to perform a spell more difficult than any I have attempted before. I must be certain it will work as planned.”

“Ah,” Dorian says. “You need a spotter.”

“I need no such thing,” she says tartly. “I merely require you to witness the transformation and study its results. And, possibly…” She fidgets with her glove, avoiding his eye. “Help me dispel it if something does not go as planned.”

“In other words, a spotter.”

The scowl returns. “Very well, if that ridiculous term pleases you, a _spotter_. Will you help or not?”

“What, now?”

“This very moment, yes. We know not when Corypheus might show himself. I must be prepared.”

“Aside from the fact that it’s very late and very cold, I don’t know that I’m in any condition to spot you right now.”

She makes an impatient gesture. “I have a tonic that will restore your faculties quickly enough. As for your comfort, fetch yourself a warm cloak and boots if you must, but make haste. We have a long walk ahead.”

A long walk? Dorian doesn’t like the sound of this at all. “Just what sort of spell is this, Morrigan? What are you transforming?”

“Myself.”

“Shapeshifting? How will you match Corypheus’s archdemon with…” He trails off, his eyes widening. “You’re joking. _Fasta vass_ , are you mad?”

“It is neither jest nor madness. Fetch your cloak and your staff, Pavus. We must be away.”

“I’ve never heard of such a spell. Assuming it’s even possible, what makes you think you can control it?” He realizes the answer as soon as he speaks. “You’re not sure you can. That’s why you want to put distance between yourself and the fortress. You’re afraid you’ll accidentally reduce it to rubble.” He laughs darkly. “Oh, this is beautiful. And what of your lovely assistant, _hmm_? What if dragon Morrigan decides I look tasty?”

She meets his eye. “There is a risk,” she says, and it almost sounds like a challenge.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the knowledge that he’s likely to be roasted by a dragon in the next few days either way. Perhaps it’s just the aching hollow inside his ribs. Whatever the reason, Dorian decides he doesn’t much mind risking death to watch Morrigan shapeshift into a dragon. In fact…

“It sounds bloody delightful. I’ll get my things.”


	41. The hourglass empties

Dorian has a headache.

Not one of those dull, hover-in-the-background things, either. A splitting headache, the kind that feels like a tiny dwarf is perched inside your skull with a hammer and chisel and a comprehensive list of every unkind thing you’ve ever said about dwarves, and he’s exacting his vengeance one hammer stroke at a time. The little shit has been at it for hours now, with no sign of letting up. Maybe the cold is keeping him awake. It’s certainly keeping Dorian awake, despite the fact that the moon set hours ago and it’s probably closer to dawn than dusk, and _still_ they’re trudging through the snow.

“ _Vishante kaffas_. How much farther do you mean to drag me?” They’re the first words he’s spoken in over an hour, and it took some effort to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

Morrigan glances over her shoulder, her features barely discernible in the gloom. “I can still see the glow of the fortress,” she says, inclining her chin in the direction from which they’ve come.

“Of course you can. It’s perched on top of a bloody mountain. It’s _miles_ away.”

“The distance is irrelevant. We must be out of their sight, and they of ours.”

“Remind me again why we couldn’t bring horses?”

She clucks her tongue. “Fool. Assuming the dragon could resist the temptation to eat them, they would go mad with fear.”

“The dragon. You mean _you_?”

“Let us hope so. But as I told you, there is a risk. Shapeshifting always involves a certain… _dilution_ … of one’s humanity. The faculties of a sentient being cannot easily be accommodated in the mind of a beast. I know what to expect from a wolf or a raven, and I have learned to adjust. But I have never assumed the form of a dragon before. Who can say what impulses rage in a creature of such raw might? And then there are my own impulses. Power can be intoxicating to even the most disciplined mind.”

Dorian scowls. “You’re not filling me with confidence.”

“You were properly warned, were you not?”

“That is yet to be determined. _Warned_ and _properly warned_ are not quite the same.” Dorian huddles deeper into his cloak, pulling the fur-lined collar tight around his neck. “I do hope it’s worth the risk, to both of us.”

“As do I,” she says with a solemnity that is not at all reassuring.

“Does the Inquisitor know what this spell entails?”

“Yes, though I am uncertain how he feels about it. He was, as always, difficult to read.” She shakes her head. “Inquisitor Lavellan keeps his own counsel, does he not?”

“He certainly does,” Dorian murmurs.

There’s a pause. Morrigan cuts him a sidelong look. “Why did you do it?”

Dorian sighs. It was only a matter of time. He’s surprised it took her this long, frankly. “What exactly is it you think I did?”

“Did you not tell him you were leaving him?”

“No. Yes.” Dorian rubs his eyes, mentally cursing tiny dwarves and their vindictive little chisels. “It’s complicated.”

She doesn’t respond, clearly waiting for him to elaborate.

“I told him I would be returning to Tevinter when all this is done, assuming we survive. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he would hear that as _I’m planning to leave you_ , at least not permanently. I thought of it as a temporary rupture. An obstacle we would have to find a way to overcome. It wasn’t meant to be the end of the road.”

“Why not simply allow him to accompany you?”

“An elf? In the Imperium?”

“‘Twould no doubt be dangerous, but the Inquisitor seems quite capable of taking care of himself.”

“Perhaps, but it’s more than that. My goal is to reform the Imperium from within. Forcing it to change from without would never work. But that’s exactly how it would be perceived if I were to arrive in Tevinter with the leader of the Inquisition at my side. At best, I would be seen as a puppet of a foreign power; at worst, as a traitor outright. Even moderate voices would be suspicious of me, and rightly so. I would be worse than ineffective. I’d be toxic. Any initiative associated with my name would be doomed before it began.”

Morrigan hums thoughtfully. “I am no student of politics, but your analysis seems sound.”

“Politics is in every drop of my blood. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Even so, your timing…”

“Ah, yes, my timing.” Dorian laughs bitterly. “Atrocious, isn’t it? All because of a silly nightmare. I’d been dreaming about the Temple of Mythal, you see. Over and over. I thought, _I’ll just get this off my chest and the dreams will stop._ ”

And so they have. In their place are dreams about his lover, a pitiless, unending montage of memories that plague him night after night. Instead of waking up in a panic, he wakes with tears in his eyes – that, or a raging erection. The Nightmare itself couldn’t have tortured him more effectively.

“I’d take it back if I could,” he says roughly. “Every word.”

“Perhaps you will yet find a way to undo what you have done. But for now…” Morrigan slows, turning to face Skyhold. “We are out of sight of the fortress at last.”

“Thank the Maker.” Dorian unhooks his staff from his back, pausing to blow into his hands before readjusting his gloves. “Now, what exactly is it you need me to do?”

“Watch. Study. You have fought many dragons at the Inquisitor’s side, have you not?”

“Entirely too many for my liking.”

“The form I assume must be correct in every particular. Not only in how it looks, but how it moves.”

“Easy enough.”

“If the dragon does not render correctly, or if I appear to be struggling in some way, I may need you to dispel the enchantment, if you can.”

“A good deal less simple.”

Her golden eyes fix on him. “Most importantly, we are here to gauge how much of _me_ remains within the creature I become. Am I able to recognize you? To understand your words and intentions?”

Dorian laughs darkly. “And if you’re not?”

“Then you will most likely die. But take heart: The rest of us will not be far behind you. Because if I cannot master this spell and match Corypheus’s dragon, we are all doomed.”

“Darling Morrigan, remind me never to let you give an inspirational speech to the troops.”

She ignores that, giving him a long, penetrating look. “Are you prepared, Pavus?”

Dorian bites back a sarcastic reply. The time for glibness is past; he needs to focus, for both their sakes. Closing his eyes, he draws a deep breath, centring his thoughts. “Go.”

The air around him ripples, sending waves of static over his skin, lifting the hairs on his arms even through several layers of clothing. He keeps his eyes shut, feeling the movement of the Veil, searching for snags as it flows between his fingers, but it’s smooth as silk. Then a blast of warm air rushes over him, and when he opens his eyes, he finds himself nose to nose with a _dragon_.

His knees turn to jelly, and he takes an involuntary step back, his heart thudding in his ears.

_Get a hold of yourself, man._

Swallowing hard, Dorian meets the dragon’s eye, searching for some glimmer of humanity. That golden gaze is like a mirror, but the fact that she hasn’t bitten him in half yet is a promising start. The warmth of her breath enfolds him; he can hear her lungs filling and deflating like a bellows, each exhalation stirring his hair, rippling over the fur trim of his cloak. “All right,” he murmurs in his most velveteen voice, as though he’s soothing a spooked horse. “Let’s get a look at you, shall we?” He backs away slowly, never taking his eyes from hers, fingers clenching and unclenching around his staff as he fights his body’s quite sensible instinct to _run_.

He walks around her in a slow circle, mesmerized. He’s never had the luxury of doing this before, at least not while the creature is alive, and the thrill of being so close to something this deadly is intoxicating. The glittering scales, the massive expanse of wings, the double ridge of spines running along her tail… She’s magnificent, and as the fear recedes, envy rushes into its place, so powerful that his teeth ache. To be a _dragon_ , even for a moment... Never before has Dorian coveted another mage’s power so fiercely. It’s not just the strength, or the beauty; it’s the sheer awe of it, the sense of being in the presence of a goddess.

 _So, Pavus, you are Tevinter to your core after all._ The thought brings a wry smile to Dorian’s lips.

But he’s not here to gawk. “Everything appears to be in order,” he says. “Now, can you understand me?”

The great head swings in his direction, but the only response is a low rumble, which could mean just about anything.

 _All right, let’s try this._ Slowly, his hand only _slightly_ shaking, Dorian reaches for the dragon’s snout.

Golden eyes narrow, and the dragon rumbles again, an unmistakably irritated sound. She’s in there, all right.

“ _Kaffas_ , woman, throw me a bone. When am I ever going to get this chance again?”

The dragon blows out an impatient breath and lowers her head, and Dorian pats her nose.

“You seem safe enough. Now.” A slow smile spreads across his face, and though her reptilian features don’t move, he senses her smiling back at him. “Let’s see what you’ve got, shall we?”

*** * ***

Dawn is breaking by the time Dorian and Morrigan walk through the gates of Skyhold, both of them still smiling like the cats that got the cream. Indeed, they look so pleased with themselves that tongues might well be wagging later, but Dorian can’t bring himself to care. His veins are still buzzing with energy, so much so that he probably won’t even bother trying to sleep. All he needs is a wash and a little something to eat, and he’ll be ready to face the day.

So he thinks, at any rate, but when he steps out of his quarters a little while later, he senses immediately that something is wrong. People are rushing around the bailey like ants with the nest kicked in, their faces etched with fear. The alarm hasn’t been sounded, so they’re not under attack... Instinctively, Dorian glances up and sees traces of a familiar toxic green threaded through the clouds.

_No. Not yet. It’s too soon…_

He races for the wall walk, but he doesn’t even get halfway up the stairs before he sees it, a writhing gyre of energy that seems to suck the very lifeblood from the earth below.

The Breach.

“He’s here,” Dorian murmurs. “It’s here.”

He feels strangely calm. The buzz of his experience with the dragon is gone. His headache is gone, and his hunger. There’s only one thought in his mind, and before he even fully processes it, he’s running for the keep.

Varric is slinging his crossbow over his shoulder as Dorian rushes in. “Where is he?”

Wordlessly, the dwarf points at the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Dorian bursts through the lower door without any clear idea of what he’s going to say, but he has no time to think: the Inquisitor is hurtling down the stairs, armour gleaming, eyes blazing, his fine features a mask of resolve. He’s so beautiful it takes Dorian’s breath away, and he freezes at the bottom of the stairs. “ _Amatus_ …”

The elf takes the last three steps in a single stride, grabs Dorian’s face with both hands, and kisses him.

Dorian makes a small sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a sob. He clutches at his lover, kissing him so hard it hurts, both of them pouring a thousand burning words into a single moment of stolen breath.

The elf pulls back and holds Dorian’s gaze. “Whatever you want to say to me, it can wait.”

“But it can’t…”

“Yes, it can.” His eyes are fierce with determination. “We will survive this. I swear it. Now get your armour and meet us in the Undercroft.”

“You want me at your side?” Dorian can barely choke out the words.

The elf’s hands still frame his face, and he rests his forehead against Dorian’s. “Always, _‘ma vhen’an_.”

And then he’s gone, sweeping past Dorian and out the door. Dorian calls his name – his given name, that he only ever uses in private – and the elf turns. But the words die on Dorian’s lips. There’s too much, and not enough time. Not anymore.

“Hurry,” the elf says, turning back toward the Undercroft. “It's time to end this.”


	42. Even the best laid plans

The journey to the Valley of Sacred Ashes is something of a blur. They push themselves as hard as they dare that first day, until they start to become dangerously spread out. Solas is the first to fall behind, and then Vivienne. Cassandra and Blackwall, meanwhile, get so far ahead that Dorian loses track of them in the swirling snow. The Inquisitor keeps tighter ranks after that, riding up and down the line with Harding, rounding up any strays.

Dorian spends the evenings in conference will Solas and Morrigan, sharing the fruits of their respective research projects in an effort to anticipate what they might face. Cole contributes what he can, snippets of thoughts and emotions snatched from Corypheus’s head. Vivienne hovers over them, making the occasional comment, but she hasn’t put in the real work, not like the rest of them, and she rarely has anything fresh to add.

The others go through their own preparations. The warriors sharpen their blades and oil the joints of their armour. Sera and Varric tinker with their toys, filling vials and setting springs. The Inquisitor, meanwhile, paces like a caged animal, lost in his own thoughts. He’s so focused on the task ahead that he's scarcely present at all. Dorian wants so badly to go to him, to say all the things he should have said before they left, but he knows it would be a mistake. The man pacing in the snow right now isn’t his lover. He’s no one’s friend, or brother, or even commander. He’s the Herald of Andraste, and in a few hours, he’s going to have to save the world.

And Dorian? He fully expects to die. He could almost be at peace with that if he could hold his lover one last time. Fix the horrible mess he’s made. But that’s not going to happen. At least the elf’s clan is safe. Maker willing, he can go home when this is all over. Return to the forest with Maggie and be free. The thought eases the tightness in Dorian’s chest.

The last night is the longest. No one sleeps. No one speaks. The moon seems to hang suspended in the sky, like a clock pendulum arrested mid-swing. And then morning comes, and the clock unwinds completely. Noon follows hard upon the dawn – then afternoon, and evening, the hours unfurling so quickly it’s terrifying, as if one of Alexius’s spells has gone horribly awry. Dorian can feel the final moments of his life slipping through his fingers like sand, and the only consolation is that by the time Haven appears on the horizon, he’s so jittery that he feels as if he has power to spare.

The Inquisitor reins in at the edge of the village, turning to face the rest of them. “Does everyone know their part?”

“We do, Inquisitor,” Blackwall answers gravely. “We won’t fail you.”

“I know you won’t. None of us will fail. The gods are with us, my friends, mine and yours. May they guide our hearts and our blades.” So saying, he swings down from his horse, loosens his knives in their sheaths, and starts toward what’s left of the gate.

He takes only a single step before an explosion rocks the valley. The ground bucks beneath them, and a split second later a wave of energy hurtles out from the temple, striking the elf full in the chest and knocking him back several feet. Dorian’s horse screams and rears up; he’s thrown, landing flat on his back. _Thank the Maker for deep snow_ , he thinks, which is certainly a first. Even with its cushion, the fall knocks the wind out of him, and he lies there a moment, stunned.

Bull hauls him to his feet just as a demon erupts from the shadows; the Qunari twists, shielding Dorian with his body as claws the size of harrow blades rake his flesh. Bull grunts, dropping Dorian back in the snow and reaching behind him to grab the terror hanging off his shoulder. He flings it to the ground beside Dorian, which would not have been Dorian’s first choice, but at least he has the good manners to dispatch it before it can do any more damage. Then another demon appears, and another – and suddenly they’re everywhere, a shrieking black tide of teeth and claws and misshapen flesh, and Blackwall is shouting orders and the companions are fanning out and Bull is shoving Dorian toward the gate, where a flash of silver hair has just disappeared around a corner. The Inquisitor is making for the temple. Cassandra will be with him. Dorian hesitates, throwing a conflicted glance at his companions, but another shove from Bull reminds him of his orders, and they leave the chaos behind, plunging into the shadows of the ruined village.

Dorian trails the Qunari through a maze of rubble, their path guided by the distorted shrieking of demons echoing off the stone. He tries not to think about where they are, what it looked like before the archdemon reduced it to rubble. That _thing_ is here somewhere, waiting for them. And so is Corypheus. That explosion was spirit energy, more powerful than anything Dorian has seen before. The enchanted trinkets the four of them are wearing will be all but useless against power like that.

 _Which is why you’re Barrier Boy today._ Not the most glamorous of roles in a battle, but Dorian’s usual arsenal of spells will be next to no help. Not against a darkspawn magister. _Conserve your energy_ , the Inquisitor ordered him. _Wait for your moment._

He’s clear on that part of his instructions, at least. How he’ll know “his moment” when he sees it is another matter entirely.

They’re almost at the temple. A sickly red glow lights the treetops, and Dorian can already feel the red lyrium, its tendrils probing, squeezing his skull, as if testing his brain for ripeness. He fights down a wave of nausea as they take the final stairs two at a time…

And there he is. Corypheus. Dorian’s knees go a little weak, but all in all, he finds himself surprisingly calm. One can only contemplate one’s own doom for so long, he supposes, before even that becomes a bore.

“I love what he’s done with the place,” Dorian mutters, eying the bristling shards of red lyrium, the floating boulders spinning gently on their axes.

Bull’s only reply is a low growl.

Up ahead, the Inquisitor stands defiantly before the darkspawn magister, as fragile and beautiful as a snowflake before a raging fire. Corypheus bows to him with a sneer. “I knew you would come.”

Dorian snorts. _What? You’ve lured us into your cunning trap? Clever you._ Honestly, he expected better from a thousand year-old mage.

The elf points a dagger at his head. “It ends here, Corypheus.”

“And so it does.”

The magister’s clawed hands flare with red light, and the ground lurches beneath them, so hard that Dorian nearly loses his footing. It feels like a lift going up – which is exactly what it is. Dorian watches in mute horror as the temple is torn from the earth below, and them along with it, insects clinging desperately to a weed that’s been pulled up by the roots.

This was not among the scenarios he discussed with Solas.

When the lift stops, they’re half a mile above ground and surrounded by the remnants of Haven, broken towers and shattered walls bathed in the bloody glow of red lyrium. It’s like being back in the Fade, and for a moment Dorian actually wonders if that’s what’s happened. But no – the elf’s hand isn’t glowing. The anchor is silent, at least for now.

Corypheus, alas, is _not_ silent. Like every other power-hungry madman they’ve come across, he’s fond of making speeches, and he gives one now, eviscerating his enemy with devastating words like _interloper_ and _gnat_. How can this man possibly be Tevinter? Dorian’s gardener has a sharper tongue. Just for a moment, he catches himself thinking that perhaps this creature isn’t so formidable after all.

Only a fool tempts fate with a thought like that.

A chilling growl sounds from the shadows. Claws hook over the broken stones above Corypheus, and the archdemon hauls itself into view, perching on the ruined wall like a god-sized carrion crow. It smells like carrion too, reeking of death and decay, the heat of its fetid breath rolling over them as it snarls.

The companions exchange glances.

_Anytime now, Morrigan._

Dorian reaches for the Veil, trying to sense the witch's casting. He can feel tugging in the distance – Solas and Vivienne battling the demons below. He can feel the power rolling off Corypheus in waves. But that’s all.

The realization sinks like a stone to the pit of Dorian’s stomach.

Something is very wrong.


	43. Leap of faith

Morrigan isn’t coming.

Dorian watches the truth break over each of his companions in turn. Cassandra’s mouth presses into a grim line. Bull bares his teeth in a silent snarl of defiance. The Inquisitor meets Dorian’s gaze and holds it, and the farewell in his eyes is as clear as if he’d spoken the words. Then he turns back to his enemy, head high, shoulders set, and Dorian is so proud of him he could cry.

The corrupted dragon rumbles again, its gaze raking over them as if to decide which of these puny creatures it wants to devour first. As though the outcome of this little game of roulette is in any doubt. Yellow eyes settle hungrily on the Inquisitor, and the tattered wings start to spread.

_Barrier. Now._

Dorian reaches for his power – _and it’s not there._ Instead of a thrumming pool of energy, he encounters only a void; where vibration should be, only stillness. He reaches again, a clumsy grasp for something, _anything_ , but the air around him is utterly… tranquil.

The breath leaves him in a strangled cry of disbelief. The elf turns at the sound, distracted at the worst possible moment as the dragon leaps from its perch. Bull throws himself bodily into the Inquisitor, knocking him aside a heartbeat before the dragon crashes down in a cloud of black dust. It snarls in irritation at having its meal snatched from its claws, but this is a minor setback, and it pivots toward the figures lying prone in its shadow. Cassandra charges the creature’s open flank, but she’s no more than a nuisance, a horsefly on a druffalo.

As for Dorian, he’s nothing at all. An empty husk where a mage used to be.

Fear washes over him, dizzying in its intensity, but it’s chased with something else. Something that feels an awful lot like _rage_.

 _Don’t just stand there like a stunned rabbit. You’re meant to be clever, aren’t you? So diagnose the fucking problem and_ fix it.

Closing his eyes, he does his best to shut out the deadly scramble taking place a few feet away, to draw his focus inward where it will do the most good. He can feel his own mana – he’s practically boiling over with it – so the problem isn’t him. Corypheus’s power is there too, radiating out from him in waves, and… wait. _There._ So faint that he’d missed it before: a glimmer of magic lying just beyond his reach. It’s being pushed back, repelled by Corypheus’s power, almost as if he’s creating a Veil of his own then and there. Dorian can sense the stillness at the centre of those waves, the source of all this pulsing: it’s the orb, the elven artifact Solas told him to be wary of. Corypheus holds it aloft, and it’s like a magnet pushing at an opposite pole, holding the Fade at bay.

 _Extraordinary_ , Dorian thinks. How is it possible?

No matter. It explains why he can’t draw on his power – and also why Morrigan hasn’t arrived. Whatever the nature of this dampening field, she’s obviously caught up in it too, unable to shift forms. And yet Dorian can still feel Solas and Vivienne casting far below – faint, but unmistakable. Somehow, they’re outside the range of Corypheus’s dampening spell.

_Which means…_

Dorian hesitates, watching his friends battle the corrupted dragon while Corypheus looks on with a triumphant sneer. The darkspawn magister doesn’t even need to expend his own power. His pet is more than a match for them. The elf is a blur of motion, ducking and rolling and diving, but he’ll tire soon enough, and that will be the end of it. There’s nothing Dorian or Bull or Cassandra can do to protect him. They need Morrigan.

And so, fighting down every instinct he has, Dorian turns and runs.

Down the stairs, back the way he came, calling out Morrigan’s name. If she were down below with Solas and Vivienne, she’d be able to cast, which means she’s _somewhere_ on this Maker-forsaken floating rock. He ducks through ruined arches, races between crumbling walls, doing his best not to fall off the edge and plummet to his death as the world spins like a sickening hangover under his feet.

“Morrigan! _Kaffas_ , woman, I know you’re—”

“Here!”

She startles him so badly that he loses his footing and very nearly pitches right over the edge; only the witch’s quick reflexes prevent him from getting that flying experience after all.

“Something is wrong,” she says as she drags him back from the precipice. She’s out of breath and flushed from racing up the stairs, and there’s a gash on her arm, though it doesn’t look deep. “The spell. I cannot—”

“I know. It’s some kind of dampening field. I can’t cast anything either.”

Her golden eyes widen. “What do you mean? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. But the range is limited. That’s why Corypheus tore the ground up by the roots.” He’d thought it a bit of showmanship, a dramatic flourish to suit the creature’s pride, but that wasn’t it at all. He was trapping his prey, preventing them from escaping the suffocating influence of his magic.

Morrigan scowls. “I don’t understand. Speak plainly!”

An ear-splitting screech sounds from up the path. Dorian squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think about what’s going on up there. “There’s no time. Just answer me this: How long do you need?”

“What do you mean?”

“If the dampening field were lifted, how long until you shift?”

“Seconds.”

”And when it’s done, do you need to sustain it? Is it active or passive?”

”Passive, but why are you—?”

Dorian takes her by the shoulders and locks eyes with her. “Morrigan, do you trust me?”

“What?”

 _Close enough_ , he decides.

Wrapping his arms around the witch, Dorian throws them both off the edge of the world.


	44. The test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We've started our final approach. Please fasten your seat belts and expect a little turbulence.

It sounds like the opening of a joke. _An evil magister and a Witch of the Wilds fall from the sky…_

They’re about to be the punchline, too, since it turns out that half a mile isn’t such a very great distance to cover at this speed. Tears streak Dorian’s face, and the wind rushes up his nose with such force that he can hardly breathe, but from what he can see through the blur, they’re seconds away from being smashed into paste. Morrigan is falling face up, which is probably a blessing; instead of screaming, the witch has chosen to deploy an impressive array of colourful metaphors about Dorian’s person, and if she saw their doom hurtling up to meet them, she might just decide to throttle him first.

“ _Be… ready…”_ Dorian manages to gasp through the rushing air.

She squawks something that Dorian can’t quite make out but which definitely ends in his death.

And then he feels it, like a bellows on a darkened bed of coals: His insides flare, the embers of his magic taking light once more. They’re out of range of Corypheus’s dampening spell – though from the horrifying clarity of the ground below, it might already be too late.

“ _Now!_ ” he cries, though the witch certainly feels it too, and a moment later the figure in his arms becomes as insubstantial as smoke. He tries to hold on as she shifts, but he can’t, and now he’s in total freefall, and it occurs to him, somewhat belatedly, that Morrigan is rather cross with him at the moment, which might be a problem.

The ground is so close now that it seems as if he could almost reach out and touch it. He shuts his eyes – and lurches upward with a _whuff_ that very nearly wrenches the breakfast right out of him. There’s a talon under his ribs – _that’s_ going to be a nasty bruise – and the ground below is no longer rushing up to meet him but racing past in a blur; Dorian watches in awe as a vast, dragon-shaped shadow sweeps across the snow, its outline sketched in the sickly glow of the Breach.

Gradually, the land starts to fall away as the dragon tilts her wings, gaining altitude. The talons cradling Dorian stir, depositing him rather clumsily on the dragon’s shoulders, and he scrambles to find purchase, clinging like a spider as the wind snatches at his clothing. No sooner has he found a decent grip than Morrigan beats her wings, nearly unseating him, but he manages to hold on as they climb and climb and…

He’s flying.

 _He, Dorian Pavus, is flying._ Riding a dragon like some hero of legend, cloak fluttering gloriously in the wind, and for once he doesn’t even care what his hair looks like. It’s so exhilarating that he forgets, just for a heartbeat, that the man he loves is fighting for his life on that spinning meteor above, and it’s all he can do not to _whoop_. But that would be terribly undignified.

Each sweep of the dragon’s wings brings them closer to the temple. The sky is a boiling cauldron of green, debris moving in every direction, a horrorscape even more terrible from this vantage. Flashes of red mark the place where the Inquisitor and his companions are fighting, and the occasional roar from the lyrium dragon drifts down from above. Already, Dorian can feel his magic being snuffed out as they re-enter Corypheus’s dampening field. Morrigan’s spell is passive, so she’ll stay in dragon form, but he is all but useless once more. They need to do something about that orb.

Leaning forward as far as he dares, he shouts at the top of his voice. “ _Get me as close to Corypheus as you can! We must get that orb!_ ”

There’s no acknowledgement, and he can only pray she’s heard him. She keeps climbing and climbing – past the temple and higher still, until they’re well above the battle. Dorian realizes what she intends, and he knows they’ll only get one chance. Unhooking his staff, he braces himself for the dive.

Later, he’ll wonder how it all looked to his companions, locked in their deadly dance with the lyrium dragon while Corypheus looms over them triumphantly. In that moment, all he can say for certain is that everyone is rather _surprised_ when a second dragon drops from the sky, a tiny mage clinging to her back. Dorian sees the whites of Corypheus’s eyes widen as the dragon swoops past, and he lashes out with his staff, swinging for the orb with all his might.

He misses by a mile. He always was rubbish at polo.

Happily, however, he _does_ manage to club Corypheus in the face, and it’s enough to knock the orb from his grasp; it rolls out of sight, and the dampening field vanishes like smoke on the wind.

Morrigan wheels back in a tight circle, flying low to the ground. Dorian leaps from her back just as she tackles the archdemon, sending both creatures tumbling in a writhing, screaming cloud of black dust. They roll right off the edge of the world – only to lurch back into view a moment later, on the wing and ready to rip each other to shreds.

Dorian immediately throws a barrier over his allies, and the Inquisitor doesn’t lose a beat, charging Corypheus before he can retrieve the orb. The magister snarls and raises a wall of lyrium shards from the ground, but the elf dives neatly over it, rolls to his feet, and keeps running. Dorian sends out a crippling pulse of dispelling magic, stripping the ancient magister’s barrier even as the elf races up a broken pillar and launches himself, daggers flashing, at Corypheus’s neck; the creature dodges the worst of the blow, but the blades bite deep into his armour, and he grunts in pain.

By this time, Bull and Cassandra have recovered from their shock. They charge the enemy from both sides, but before they can reach him, he flits away, fade-stepping out of view.

A voice growls from somewhere nearby. “A dragon. How clever of you.”

Dorian pivots slowly, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. “Frightfully unoriginal, isn’t it? Whereas the Tevinter magister with delusions of godhood is such a _fresh_ take.”

No reply. The companions fan out, scanning the shadows.

“Hide and seek?” Bull growls. “Coward.”

The word is barely out of his mouth before Corypheus materializes before him, slamming the Qunari with a blast of lyrium energy so powerful that Dorian’s head aches with it. Bull staggers, his barrier withering beneath the onslaught like paper put to flame. Dorian tries to reinforce it, but it’s no good; the Qunari buckles, sinking to his knees before collapsing in a smoking heap. The Inquisitor throws himself at Corypheus once more, but this time the magister is ready, catching the elf by the throat and hurling him against the wall with a sickening _crack_. Then he turns to face Cassandra, meeting her charge with a blast of energy that throws her ten feet back.

The Inquisitor is slow getting to his feet, and there’s blood running down his chin, flowing from somewhere under the helm. Dorian rushes to his side, and the eyes that peer out through the slats are woozy. “Bull,” the elf murmurs.

A shadow flits over them. Glancing up, Dorian sees the dragons locked in a deadly embrace, both of them plunging from the sky as they screech and tear at one another. Morrigan can’t get free of her enemy’s clutches, and as Dorian looks on in horror, she crashes to the flagstones and doesn’t move again.

Fighting down a wave of despair, Dorian brings a healing potion to the elf’s lips. “Drink.”

He takes a swallow. “Morrigan. Is she…?”

Dorian glances over his shoulder. The witch is back in human form, but she lies as still as the grave. “I don’t know. Just drink.”

“You have to… help her.”

“I’m not leaving your side.”

“I’ll be all right.” The elf shakes his head groggily, as if to clear it. “I’m fine.”

“ _Amatus_ …”

The elf blinks, focus returning to his eyes as the potion starts to take effect. “Morrigan did her part. Now let me do mine.” When Dorian still hesitates, the elf grips his shoulder. “If ever you believed in me, _vhen’an_ , trust me now. I will not fail, I swear it. Now _go_.”

He lurches to his feet, snatching up his daggers as he rushes to help Cassandra, and once again, Dorian finds himself running in the wrong direction, _away_ from the man he loves even as the lyrium dragon circles overhead, readying for a dive. It’s gravely injured, but still a deadly threat – and then there’s Corypheus. How long can the Inquisitor and Cassandra possibly survive against that?

_Trust me now._

Morrigan lies face-down on the flagstones, bleeding freely from a head wound. Dorian rolls her over, but he can see straightaway that an ordinary healing potion isn’t going to be enough. He reaches inside one of his pouches, the one where he keeps his most precious research items. There’s a powerful rejuvenation potion in here, an incredibly finicky recipe that he’s only ever succeeded in brewing once. He’s been saving it for the Darkest Hour, and he supposes this is it.

But as he roots around in the pouch, his fingers brush something else, something warm and pulsing with power, and he draws it out in silent awe.

Alexius’s amulet. He’d forgotten he even had the thing. He kept it for research purposes, but he never did get around to studying it. There was no hurry, after all; it was inert, completely spent. No longer. Instead it’s throbbing with energy, and Dorian knows why.

The Breach.

Somehow, the hole in the sky is linked to Alexius’s time magic. Once the Breach was sealed, the amulet became useless. But it’s open again, boiling like an angry sea directly above Dorian’s head, and he can feel the magical energy flowing into the amulet. It’s more supercharged than ever, an artifact of unimaginable power, and it’s in his hands.

 _I can go back_ , Dorian thinks.

Before Bull was knocked unconscious. Before Corypheus tore the ground up by the roots. Before the Arbor Wilds, or even the attack on Haven.

_Before I ruined everything with the love of my life._

It’s all open to him. Any moment between now and when the amulet first came into his possession. He could prevent so many tragedies. Experience so many joys all over again. Every precious memory. Even that first kiss.

It’s incredibly dangerous. Wildly reckless, in fact. Using the amulet this close to the Breach could tear a hole in the very fabric of the world. To risk those consequences... It would go against everything he stands for, every principle he believes in. And yet… His gaze drifts up the stairs to where the battle rages, the Inquisitor and Cassandra fighting to stay alive against a red lyrium dragon and darkspawn magister.

If ever there was a time to cut corners... _Wait for your moment_ , the elf had told him. Surely this is it? 

The temptation is so overwhelming that he’s trembling with it, and for the first time, he truly understands Alexius. _Just one spell, and I can fix everything. I can save him. I can save_ us _._

The elf wouldn’t even have to know. No one would have to know. Besides, what other choice is there?

And then, as if in answer, he hears the elf’s voice. _If ever you believed in me, trust me now._

Dorian squeezes his eyes shut. Draws a long, shuddering breath.

He puts the amulet back in his pouch.

Gathering Morrigan in his arms, he tips her head back and pours a draught of the rejuvenation potion down her throat. She doesn’t stir, but the wound on her head slows its bleeding, and her chest rises and falls more deeply. She’ll be all right. Next, he tends to the Iron Bull, casting a revive spell over the Qunari even as he races back up the shattered steps. He starts to fetch another healing potion, but the ridiculous ox-man apparently doesn’t realize he’s half dead, because he shoves himself to hands and knees, downs a potion of his own, and staggers to his feet, axe in hand.

Well, then.

Mounting the final step, Dorian slings a sizzling arc of electricity straight at Corypheus’s chest. It won’t do much damage, but it does announce his return with a bit of flair, and if he’s going to die anyway, he’s bloody well going to do it in style.

Corypheus now faces four instead of two, and apparently he doesn’t like those odds, because he fade-steps into the shadows once more – searching for his precious orb, no doubt. _He really is a coward_ , Dorian thinks. It’s as if he expected them to simply submit. To tremble at his might and sink to their knees. _This_ upstart rabble? Dorian almost laughs at the thought.

He doesn’t, though, because there’s a red lyrium dragon trying to kill him.

It lashes out with its tail, nearly upending Dorian, but he does a little fade-stepping of his own, flitting out of harm’s way. The dragon pivots back to the Inquisitor, tracing an arc of blood as it drags an injured foreleg over the flagstones. It’s bleeding from the flank, too, Dorian realizes, a trio of deep gashes from Morrigan’s claws exposing the pink flesh beneath the scales. The sight of that blood sends renewed energy through Dorian’s limbs – and he’s not the only one. He sees the iron willpower hardening the Seeker’s features. The predatory gleam of the hunter in the elf’s eyes. He watches the bloodlust wash over the Qunari, twisting his face into a bestial mask. In that moment, they are all reavers, drawing strength from the creature’s wounds. Corrupted it might be, but it’s still a mortal dragon, and no one alive has slain more dragons than the four of them.

They set upon it in the rhythm they know so well. Cassandra rings a stunning blow off its skull with her shield. The Qunari roars and flails, making as big a target out of himself as possible. Dorian slings cheeky bolts of frost from a distance. Harassed on all sides, the dragon whirls and snaps ineffectually, and by the time it notices the slender figure stealing up on it, it’s too late. The daggers are embedded behind its jaw, just above the artery the elf loves so well. He carves a vicious downward stroke, and a gout of blood gushes over his leathers.

 _His_ dragon hide _leathers, you overgrown gecko._ Dorian watches, lip curled in a sneer, as the dragon slumps to the flagstones and goes still.

His gloating is cut short by the sudden reappearance of Corypheus, orb in hand. For a moment Dorian fears the mini-Veil will return, but Corypheus has other plans for his trinket, using it to power up his spells. A blade of energy rips through the ground, sending the elf diving for cover. But he’s back on his feet in a heartbeat, and he stands before the ancient magister, daggers dripping at his sides, as if to say, _is that all?_ He tears off his helm, silver hair flashing, and looks his enemy in the eye. And then he _smiles_ – still with that predatory gleam in his eye, as though he knows a deadly secret that he’s just about to reveal.

Dorian would not have thought it possible to become aroused in the middle of an existential battle with a darkspawn magister, but there it is.

What happens next is a bit of a blur. Dorian has never seen anyone move that fast, and apparently neither has Corypheus, because he doesn’t even notice the dagger until it’s buried in his armour. But that’s just a distraction, and while he’s busy yanking it out, the elf rushes him, slicing at the exposed flesh of his arm. It’s a glancing blow, but the magister cries out in rage and pain, and it’s like a fawn bleating before a pack of wolves, whipping them into a frenzy. The warriors charge in unison. Dorian slams him with a disorienting wave of spirit energy. The elf is behind him, stabbing over and over with the speed of striking serpent. By the time Corypheus fade-steps away, there’s so much blood on the flagstones that Dorian knows he’s spent.

Corypheus must know it too, because he starts ranting. They follow his voice up the stairs, listening to his stream-of-consciousness denial. His life must be flashing before his eyes, because he seems to be reminiscing about the good old days – strolling through the Golden City, et cetera – and by the time they reach him, he’s pleading with his orb like a madman, begging it to save him.

It doesn’t. The elf uses the power of the Anchor like a magnet, snatching the orb from Corypheus’s hand and shattering the creature’s jaw in the process. The defeated magister sinks to his knees and watches along with the rest of them as the Herald of Andraste holds the orb to the sky, seals the Breach, and saves the world.

Which would be a _lot_ more satisfying if it didn’t mean they were all about to die.

Boulders the size of druffalos start raining down, drowning out whatever triumphant thing the elf is saying to his vanquished enemy while the rest of them scramble to avoid being squashed into jelly. The next time Dorian looks up, Corypheus is gone and the elf is diving out of the way of a collapsing wall, and the world beneath their feet is sinking as fast as it’s crumbling and there’s no way they’ll get clear before they’re dashed to bits.

Unless…

With the world literally falling down around their ears, Dorian casts haste. He pours everything he has into it, stretching the temporal field faster than is probably wise, making sure it covers them all. It’s too much; he’s going to pass out, but he doesn’t dare hold back. If they’re fast enough, they can find cover. That’s all that matters. “ _Morrigan_ ,” he growls between clenched teeth, and the Qunari nods once and moves.

Darkness swirls in his vision, and his knees buckle. The last thing Dorian sees is Cassandra’s face as she catches him in her arms, and as the world fades to black, he smiles.

That, he reckons, was his moment.


	45. Tidal wave

“You’re only half listening to me, aren’t you?”

Dorian blinks, focusing on the scowling Dalish in front of him. In fact, he hasn’t been listening at all, because as fond as he is of Bull’s quirky little non-mage, she is notthe Dalish he wants to be talking to right now. That honour belongs to the beautiful silver-haired creature across the room, who seems even more intent than usual on avoiding him. Just now, he’s chatting with Josephine, smiling and no doubt reassuring her that everything is perfect and she ought to be celebrating with the rest of them instead of worrying about tiny cakes.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian says, “were you talking? I was a trifle distracted.”

“Is that what you call it?” Dalish snorts. “You really shouldn’t stare like that, shem. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Come now, the entire keep is staring at him. As well they should be. He did just save the world, after all.” True, the other onlookers probably aren’t sporting _quite_ the same expression as Dorian, a devastatingly handsome combination of adoration and naked longing, with just a soupcon of dread.

“Nervous, are we?”

Very well, perhaps more than a _soupcon_.

“Terrified, is more like it.” No point in trying to deny it, not after the incredibly personal errand she’s just run for him in Val Royeaux. “I haven’t spoken to him properly since…”

“Since you told him you were leaving him?”

He sighs. “I do wish people would stop saying that.”

On the far side of the hall, the Inquisitor is continuing his rounds. He’s moved on to Vivienne now, and though he’s still smiling, Dorian notes the way his posture tightens. Even after all this time, the elf doesn’t entirely trust Madame de Fer. Quite right, too. She’d feed him to varghests for sport if it gained her an ounce of favour with the right people.

“He's going to come over here eventually,” Dalish says. "Do you know what you're going to say?"

He ought to. He’s had more than enough time to think about it. It’s been nearly a week since they defeated Corypheus, and the elf has barely said two words to him – though, to be fair, he’s been run off his feet the entire time. One would think his victory would have earned him a moment’s rest, but instead he’s been tackling long-deferred projects with renewed zeal, deploying troops here, sending scouts there, mapping out the remaining rifts. It’s as if he’s keeping busy to distract himself from something.

Something like his self-absorbed peacock of an ex-lover, perhaps – to quote a certain delightful redhead.

“I’ll be incredibly witty and charming, of course,” Dorian says. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll pledge myself to a lifetime of servitude as his bed boy. His _mute_ bed boy, beautiful but silent, my tongue existing solely to service his—”

“ _Stop_.” Dalish grimaces. “I get the idea.”

Dorian arches an eyebrow. “I was going to say _whims_.”

Dalish has heard enough, and she abandons Dorian to his drink. He stays where he is, lounging against the table, pretending not to watch the elf move from one follower to the next like a bee pollinating the flowers. He’s close enough now that Dorian catches snippets of his voice through the babble of the crowd, and the sound quickens his pulse. He takes a generous swallow of wine, but it does little to banish the sudden dryness in this throat. The elf will come to him next. Not to do so would be a grievous slight, and the Inquisitor is too much of a diplomat for that, whatever the state of things between them. But he seems to be putting it off for as long as possible, and that doesn't bode well.

When he finally does drift Dorian’s way, it draws gazes from all over the hall. Everyone is so busy pretending not to watch this deliciously awkward reunion that the volume in the room drops markedly. The elf notices it too, and he pastes on his Inquisitor smile, a mask every bit as impenetrable as a piece of Orlesian finery. This is to be a performance, it seems.

Very well. Dorian is an accomplished performer.

He begins with a flippant bit about a servant dropping laundry, before moving onto a well-worn quip about being the ‘good Tevinter.’ The elf plays along, injecting appropriately wry responses here and there. Only when their fickle audience grows bored and stops paying attention does Dorian dare to speak the words he’s been burning to say.

“I’ve decided to stay with the Inquisition. For now.”

Whatever reaction he was expecting, he doesn’t get it. The words skip across the elf like pebbles over a frozen pond. “You will?” he says in a tone of polite interest, as if Dorian’s just informed him that he plans to take up macramé.

_All right, then. Still my move._

“There’s no you in Tevinter. What else matters?”

The elf blinks once. Then he turns and walks away.

Dorian stands there for a moment, his skin warming. What in the Void just happened? He watches incredulously as the elf heads for his quarters, making polite excuses along the way.

Dorian considers letting him go, but he has too much to say, and if he doesn’t say it now…

He follows the elf to his door. “Going somewhere, _amatus_?” he calls, keeping his tone light for the benefit of the many ears around them.

The elf turns. His expression is neutral, but Dorian doesn’t miss the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. He’s so pale that he looks unwell, but Dorian forges ahead.

“You didn’t think a brief chat would be enough, did you?”

The elf starts to give him the same reply as he did the other day – plenty of opportunity for this conversation later, et cetera – but Dorian isn’t having it. Not this time. Playfully, but very pointedly, he pushes the elf through the door and into the stairway, and they’re alone at last.

“Please,” the elf says. “I can’t do this right now.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I must insist. I’ve tried to be patient. To give you as much space as you need. But there’s so much I…” Dorian lapses into silence as the elf grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes – _trembling_ hands, and trembling shoulders too, like the lid of a pot that’s about to boil over. He's barely holding it together, Dorian realizes, and it dawns on him that this isn’t about them, not really. The elf has been white-knuckling it for so long now. Holding back the raging waters of fear and grief and self-doubt with a wall of pure willpower. But that dam was going to burst eventually, and now, with his enemy defeated and the threat behind them, it finally has. Dorian’s words about staying were just the last hammer tap on an already-cracked edifice, and it’s all crumbling down.

 _That’s why he’s been pushing himself so hard this past week._ He must have felt this hurtling toward him like a tidal wave, and he’s been bracing for impact.

Dorian gathers his _amatus_ close, and the elf wilts in his embrace, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s neck and burying his face in his shoulder. Wordlessly, Dorian scoops him up and carries him up the stairs. He feels so fragile in Dorian’s arms, as delicate as spun glass, and it’s hard to reconcile him with the glorious figure who stood defiantly before a would-be god only days before.

He starts toward the bed, but the elf whispers, “Outside.” He can't have the walls pressing in on him now. Dorian obeys, pausing only to grab a fur coverlet off the sofa before carrying the elf out onto the balcony.

“Give me a moment,” he murmurs, kissing the silver hair and setting the elf on his feet. Maggie swirls around her master’s legs while Dorian goes back inside and drags the sofa out onto the balcony, using that infernal Antivan rug to pull the furniture soundlessly across the stone.

“Yes.” The elf gives a rapid little nod. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

They curl up on the sofa, Dorian and his _amatus_ under the blanket, Maggie draped across their laps. It’s a tight fit, but it’s warm under all that fur, and safe, and within moments, the elf’s breathing smooths out, and he stops trembling.

“I’m here, my love,” Dorian whispers, kissing the top of his head again. “If you'll have me. For as long as you need.”

The only answer is a soft sigh, and Dorian realizes he’s asleep.


	46. Promises

Dorian wakes to find a pair of blue-green eyes staring at him. Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, throwing jewelled droplets of light onto the bedclothes. He has a vague memory of moving them inside sometime in the middle of the night. The elf hadn’t stirred, but he’s clear-eyed now, watching Dorian in silence, his face partially obscured by the overstuffed pillow that is his one concession to human luxuries. He’s so beautiful it aches, and Dorian can't help wondering what he sees staring back at him. Beauty? Betrayal? Smeared kohl and unkempt hair? All of the above, perhaps.

“Hi,” the elf says.

“Good morning.” It’s harder than it should be to frame even those simple words. Being in this bed again, waking up to that face… He hadn’t meant to. He’d had every intention of bringing the sofa back inside and sleeping there. But he still doesn’t know where things stand between them, whether they’re broken beyond all hope of repair, and the thought that it might be his last chance to fall asleep with his arms around the man he loves… He couldn’t bear to let it go. “I hope it’s all right,” he murmurs. “That I’m here. Terribly presumptuous of me, I know.”

“It’s all right.”

Silence pools in the rumpled bedclothes between them. Somewhere outside, a winter songbird trills, and Dorian realizes how quiet it is out there. No soldiers drilling. No hammer ringing off the forge. For once, the Inquisition is at peace.

“I’m sorry about last night,” the elf says.

“Maker’s breath, don’t be sorry.” Dorian reaches out under the covers and finds the elf’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “That bill was bound to come due sooner or later. It’s a miracle you held out as long as you did.”

“Did I make a scene?”

“A scene? You?” Dorian smiles. “My dear Inquisitor, you _are_ a scene. A walking, talking spectacle, and a rather fetching one at that. But no – I don’t believe most people noticed you were feeling out of sorts.”

He starts to say more, but at that moment something monstrous leaps onto the bed, and Dorian starts up with a curse. The elf, meanwhile, props himself on his elbows, and Maggie takes this as an invitation, walking between them and flopping down on her belly.

Dorian wrinkles his nose. “She’s allowed on the bed now?”

“Maggie. _Ma dur_.” The pup jumps down, but not before giving Dorian a bit of lupine stink-eye. “The bed felt a little empty,” the elf says awkwardly, avoiding Dorian’s gaze.

He sighs. “I’m going to clean up, and then we’re going to talk, you and I.”

He heads for the washstand, warming the water with a careless wave of his hand. But as he reaches for the soap, he pauses. His razor is still there, and his combs, and his moustache oil. He hadn’t had the heart to send someone to fetch his things, so he’d simply replaced them. He assumed the elf disposed of it all, but there it is, arranged neatly beside the washstand, as though he never left.

“Ah,” he says with forced levity. “That’s convenient.”

He washes, cleans his teeth, and lathers up for a shave. All the while, the elf watches him in the mirror. Dorian has always enjoyed being stared at, especially by this one, but the intensity of his gaze is downright disconcerting.

“I don’t recall you being this fascinated with my ablutions before,” he says, as lightly as he can manage.

“I’ve missed it.”

“You’ve missed watching me primp?”

“Your primping was part of my morning routine.” He pauses, mouth quirking slightly. “An _extremely long_ part of my morning routine.”

“Yes, yes, very droll.” Dorian works the razor around the patch on his chin with an expert flick of the wrist. “Perfection takes time, after all.”

Especially when you’re stalling, which he very definitely is. When he’s through, he’s going to have to _say the thing_ , and he’s so bloody nervous that he’s lucky he hasn’t opened his own throat with the razor.

The elf notices. “Your hands seem a little unsteady.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I’ve become something of a drunkard of late. A glass of wine will sort me out.” If the elf sees through that, he doesn’t let on, still watching in the mirror with that inscrutable expression.

When he’s through, Dorian heats up a fresh basin of water, trying not to let his gaze linger too long as the elf strips off the tunic he was wearing last night. The sight of him in nothing but those snug leather breeches is just a little too distracting under the circumstances, so Dorian heads out onto the balcony to wait while the other man washes up. With every passing moment, his pulse quickens a little more. This might just be the most terrifying thing he’s ever faced – which, considering he recently flung himself off a two thousand-foot cliff, is saying something.

He busies himself relocating the sofa, using magic this time, though he unaccountably forgets to bring the Antivan rug along. It will be a terrible shame if it gets ruined out there.

By the time that’s done, the elf is ready, clad in fresh breeches and a simple green tunic that brings out the aquamarine of his eyes. He settles onto the sofa, and Dorian gets a whiff of pine that makes his heart buck in his chest.

“So, you’re planning to stay with the Inquisition.” His tone, his posture – everything about him is guarded. Not that Dorian blames him.

“If you’ll let me.”

“Why would you do that?”

Dorian sighs. “I really have cocked things up, haven’t I, if you have to ask? You’re the man I love, _amatus_. I want to be with you.”

“But what’s changed? I was the man you loved before. And you never _wanted_ to leave. You felt you had to, and I supported your decision. Why go back on it now?”

_Because it’s too hard. Because it hurts too much._

The elf drops his gaze, and when he speaks again, it’s as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I think it would be a mistake to change your mind because you want to spare me pain. I’ll get through it, and so will you.”

“But that’s just it. I don’t think I will.”

The elf goes on as if he hasn’t heard. “The last thing I want is to stand in the way of your dreams. For you to wake up a year from now, two years from now, and resent me. I care for you too much to let you do that. It would be better—”

“Stop. Just stop talking, Inquisitor, and listen to me.” Leaning forward, Dorian takes the elf’s face in his hands. “ _You_ are my dreams. That’s what your name means, isn’t it? _Waking dream?_ ”

The elf blinks.

“Yes, I’ve been doing a little reading. Imagine my surprise when I learned what it means, this beautiful word I’ve been calling out in the heat of passion. Because that’s exactly what you are, what you’ve always been to me. A waking dream. Something impossible, too good to be true. I might have other dreams, but none of them are more important to me than you. They never have been, but for a time I thought that didn’t matter. That to be the man I wanted to be, someone worthy of your love, I had to be as selfless as you. But then I realized – far, far too late – that as selfless as you’ve been, you still made room for me. For us. If you could do that, even with the fate of the world on your shoulders, then I can certainly do the same. I don’t have to give you up. I won’t.”

Reaching into his pocket with shaking hands, Dorian draws out an amulet. It’s a thing of exquisite beauty, dragon bone carved in the shape of interlocking halla horns. The elf’s breath catches. His eyes fix on it, and when he glances up again, it’s in disbelief.

Holding the amulet against his heart, Dorian speaks the words he’s been practicing. “ _Ame mar, Setheneras Lavellan, sul bellanaris._ ”

Dorian offers him the necklace, his heart pounding in his chest. The elf takes it with a numb expression, and now his hands are shaking too, even worse than last night, and Dorian is half afraid he’s going to fold again. _He’s not ready for this_ , he thinks. _This was a terrible idea._

“My accent was atrocious, of course? You can tell me the truth, I shan’t be hurt. I should have run it by Dalish, perhaps, or Loranil. We can add that to the list of things I’ve cocked up.” He’s babbling now, trying to fill the silence, and just for a moment, he feels as if he’s falling from that two thousand-foot cliff all over again, only this time, there’s no one to catch him.

When the elf looks up again, his eyes are wet. “Dorian…”

“You don’t have to say anything. My promise is my own. I understand if you—”

The rest of the sentence is smothered by a kiss, so sudden and fierce that Maggie actually barks. Dorian kisses him back, hoping against hope this means what he wants it to. And now the elf is laughing, his lips flitting over Dorian’s mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, and both of their faces are wet with tears and reckless kisses and it’s a great syrupy mess and Dorian has never tasted joy like this in all his life.

The elf pulls back suddenly, his gaze falling to the amulet in his hands. “I don’t have one to give you. I did have, but after you… I couldn’t look at it anymore, and I…” He bites his lip. “Maybe Cassandra will give it back.”

“I’m sure she will, but if you like, I took the liberty…” Still trembling a little, Dorian draws a second amulet out of his pocket, identical, save that this one is carved from actual halla horn.

The elf laughs as he takes it. “But sleeping in my bed was presumptuous.”

“What can I say? I was overcome with a heady mixture of optimism and determination.” Also, a good deal of alcohol, but he doesn’t feel the need to mention that part.

“Halla horn. And dragon bone for you. It’s perfect.” He shakes his head wonderingly. “Where did you get them?”

“I had them made in Val Royeaux. You can thank Dalish for overseeing the project.”

“You sent a mercenary to procure promise necklaces?”

“These are difficult times, my dear Inquisitor. I needed a grand gesture to win you back.” The elf’s brow stitches, and Dorian holds up a hand. “And before you say anything – no, that’s not all this is. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. _And_ I want to bring about change in my homeland. I haven’t worked out how it all fits together, but there’s plenty of time for that, and I have you to help me. You are a clever one, after all.”

“Dorian.” The elf’s eyes are serious again. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

Solemnly, his gaze never leaving Dorian’s, the elf hangs the dragon bone amulet around his neck. “ _Ar ematha_ _mar dirtha’var’en_.” Dorian isn’t sure what it means, but happily, he translates. “I embrace your promise.” Then, holding the halla amulet against his breast, he makes his own vow. “ _Ar dirtha’var’en ara’len to ma, Dorian Pavus_. _Bellanaris._ ”

Dorian lowers his head, and the elf slips the chain around his neck. “I embrace your promise,” he whispers. He kisses the amulet, and then he kisses his lover, slow and deep and lingering, still tasting the tears of joy on his lips.

They nestle down onto the sofa, the back of the elf’s head resting in the crook of Dorian’s shoulder. He toys with the halla horns around his neck, watching the sunlight glint off the gold. _My little magpie_ , Dorian thinks, kissing the silver hair. “The promise necklace you found in the Emerald Graves. You gave it to Cassandra?”

He nods absently, still turning the amulet in his hands. “She cried,” he murmurs. Then he twists abruptly, giving Dorian an alarmed look. “Don’t tell her I told you!”

“My lips are sealed, Inquisitor.” Laughing, he adds, “I must admit I’m surprised, however. I’d have thought she would threaten to cut my head off.”

“Oh, she did that too. Both of your heads.”

Dorian’s laugh is chased with regret, and his arms tighten around his lover. “I’m so sorry, _amatus_.”

“I’m not. It was hard, but if that’s what it took to get us here, then I have only joy.” There’s a pause. Then he rolls over and straddles Dorian, and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable. “Well. Maybe not _only_ joy.” His mouth falls to Dorian’s, and his hips rock against him meaningfully.

“I believe I can help you with that, Inquisitor.”

He pulls back, hands braced against Dorian’s chest. “I love you, Dorian Pavus.”

“My dear Seth, I certainly hope so, seeing as we’ve just promised ourselves to each other for life. What is that called, anyway? Is there a word for betrothed?”

“ _Vallas’dir_.”

“ _Vallas’dir_ ,” Dorian echoes thoughtfully, even as his fingers start in on his lover’s laces. The elf is already hard, Maker bless him, and the smile curving his full mouth is wicked.

“I should warn you, if you thought I was frustrated after the Winter Palace…”

“Promises, promises,” Dorian murmurs, and he pulls his lover’s head down into a kiss.


	47. Epilogue

Dorian traces his fingertips along his lover’s ribs, skirting the outline of a nasty blotch of dark green. Seth’s skin twitches at his touch, gooseflesh studding his smooth chest. The elf has always been ticklish, and it’s tempting to dig in, but the welt on his ribs looks terribly sore. “Broken, were they?” Dorian murmurs.

Seth nods, silver hair falling into his eyes. He sits astride Dorian on the bed, skin damp with sweat, long lashes lowered in post-coital contentment. He’s a study in effortless male beauty, and Dorian would take him all over again if he weren’t thoroughly spent. “I’m told I had a broken collar bone as well,” he says. “All I knew at the time was that everything hurt. Vivienne healed me, but even so, I could hardly walk the next day.”

“I’m not sure you’re going to be able to walk tomorrow, either,” Dorian says with a sly smile, sliding a hand along his lover’s thigh. Meanwhile, his other hand continues its feather-light exploration, moving over the ridges of the abdomen now, tracing the sharp angles of the narrow elven hips. He’s been doing this all afternoon, learning and relearning every contour of the elf’s body as though he plans to sculpt it from memory. It’s true what they say: You can only really appreciate something after you’ve lost it.

Seth gives a delighted little shiver. “That’s very erotic, what you’re doing.”

“You think everything is erotic just now,” Dorian says, tweaking a nipple. “Not that I’m complaining, though I do think it would be wise for us to eat something. And feed your wolf.” Turning his head, he meets Maggie’s yellow-eyed gaze. “I don’t entirely like the way she’s looking at us.”

“She’s wondering what we’re doing.”

“Yes, I imagine it’s rather confusing, all this panting and moaning and rocking against one another. I’ll leave you to explain it to her.”

Seth gives the pup an earnest look. “Well, Maggie, when two daddies love each other…”

Dorian snorts. “Yes, all right, that’s enough of that. Up with you.” He pats a thigh.

“What if I don’t want to get up?” The elf leans forward and pins Dorian’s wrists to the bed. The dragon-bone amulet swings from his neck, the subtle flame-coloured iridescence glinting in the late afternoon sun. _Mine_ , Dorian thinks, and it still feels unreal. _Mine forever._

“Very well, Inquisitor. I had already resigned myself to a life as your bed boy. I ask only that when I finally expire from dehydration, you send a letter to my family explaining in vivid detail the precise manner of my death. With diagrams, if you please.”

Seth shakes his head. “The way your mind works.”

“Also, if it’s not too much trouble, I should like to die with you on top. More shocking for the old man, and much more difficult to explain at parties. _So sorry for your loss, Magister Pavus. Eaten by a dragon, was he? Put down by a shrieking horde of darkspawn? Well, no, actually, I’m afraid he perished with an elven dick in his backside.”_

“Stop.” Seth hugs his bruised ribs as he climbs off. “It hurts to laugh.”

Dorian stands, leaning against the bedpost as he waits for the light-headedness to pass. It really has been a long time since he was on his feet, and they haven’t eaten since the party last night. Haven’t emerged at all since Dorian pushed the Inquisitor backward through his bedroom door. There will be _talk_.

They do their best to tidy their little love nest before calling the servants, and Dorian heads out onto the balcony to wait while they draw a bath. Maggie follows, wagging her tail hopefully. She’s well overdue for her walk, and though a servant did take her out earlier for her constitutional, it appears that… yes, she’s peed on the Antivan rug. “You little gem,” Dorian murmurs. He doesn’t dare show his approval just now – sends the wrong message, after all – but he resolves to treat the pup to the juiciest kitchen scraps he can get his hands on. In the meantime…

“Oh dear, Inquisitor, I regret to inform you that your rug has been soiled yet again. I fear it will be impossible to get the smell out now.”

The elf sighs. “You win, Dorian. The rug goes.”

It is, Dorian thinks, his greatest victory since joining the Inquisition.

Once he’s presentable again, Dorian announces his intention to take Maggie for her walk, leaving Seth to soak in his salt bath a little longer. (Dorian has always believed that particular bit of healing wisdom to be rot, but to each his own.) The pup is so excited she practically trips him going down the stairs, and when he opens the door, she bursts into the main hall in an exuberant streak of black fur. The appearance of the Inquisitor’s wolf in the care of his erstwhile lover excites a good deal of interest, and Dorian tries not to look _too_ smug as he trails Maggie down the length of the hall.

“Well, well.” Varric’s voice hails him from his usual spot. “Look who’s finally surfaced. We were about to send a search party.” He’s sitting with Bull, Dalish, Blackwall, and Sera, playing some sort of dice game.

“Were you?” Dorian replies airily. “How thoughtful.”

“Patch things up, did you?”

Bull snorts into a mug of ale. “Do you even have to ask? Look at that shit-eating grin.”

“Now that you mention it,” Varric says, “he does look pretty pleased with himself.”

Dalish spreads her hands and raises her eyebrows, as if to say, _Well_?

If they thought he was wearing a shit-eating grin before… Dorian tugs at the chain round his neck, drawing the halla amulet out from beneath his collar.

Dalish grins. “Congratulations, shem.”

“Why, thank you.”

“He’s completely mad, of course.”

“Naturally.”

Bull frowns, his good eye cutting between Dorian and his not-mage. “Is that the errand he had you running in Val Royeaux? That bauble?”

“It’s not a bauble,” Dalish says. “It’s a Dalish promise necklace. It means they’re betrothed.”

The companions stare, thunderstruck. Much as he enjoys drama, Dorian might wish the announcement provoked a _little_ less surprise.

“Betrothed?” Sera splutters laughingly. “Our Inquisitor? To this Tevinter tossbag? Look at you, Dorian, punching above your weight.”

“He’s finally lost his mind,” Blackwall says gravely, shaking his head. “The pressure must have got to him at last.”

Dorian's mouth twists. He’ll have to endure a steady stream of such witticisms in the coming days, no doubt. So be it. It’s a small price to pay.

“Well, shit!” The dwarf raises his mug. “This calls for a toast!”

“Hold that thought, Varric. If I don’t take this wolf outside immediately, she’s going to wee on your boots.” As if to emphasize the point, Maggie whines and looks longingly at the door. “Save a mug for me?”

Maggie takes her time in the courtyard, sniffing about in search of the ideal place to do her business. Dorian follows her as she makes her way toward the smithy, and Cassandra is there as usual, perched on her stool and squinting at her book in the failing light of evening.

“You’ll ruin your eyes doing that,” Dorian observes idly.

She scowls at him, a sharp reply on her lips. Then her glance falls to the amulet around his neck, and she gives a little gasp. She stares at it wide-eyed for a split second and then buries her face in her book – but not before Dorian catches the wet shimmer in her eyes. “I do not need your advice, Tevinter,” she says, as though he can’t see the little smile she’s fighting.

Maker’s breath, she really is a romantic. Tempting as it is to tease her, however, Dorian refrains. It would be reckless to risk his life so soon after promising it to another.

He continues trailing Maggie through the yard, and he’s not altogether surprised when she leads him to Morrigan. The witch and the wolf are still bonded from their experience out in the wilds, and for once Morrigan doesn’t even trouble to hide her pleasure at seeing someone, kneeling before the pup and ruffling her fur. “I was hoping our paths might cross before I took my leave.” Lifting her golden gaze to Dorian, she adds, “ _You_ I could do without.”

“Darling Morrigan, are you still cross with me for tossing you off a cliff? Surely you realize by now that it was necessary?”

“You could have warned me of your intentions. Instead you allowed your ridiculous penchant for theatrics to govern your actions.”

“Ah, but you can’t deny that it _was_ theatrical. What glorious figures we cut, you and I.” Even now, Dorian gets a wistful little smile just thinking about it.

The witch starts to answer, but then she spies the amulet. “That’s a pretty thing. Elven, obviously. Does this mean you and the Inquisitor are reconciled?”

“Betrothed, in fact.”

“Indeed?” Morrigan makes a humming sound, somewhere between dismissive and approving. “Perhaps you are not a _complete_ fool, then. He is a rare creature, your intended.”

“He is, rather,” Dorian says, and if his voice is just a little husky, it’s only because he’s feeling parched. “There’s to be a celebratory drink inside, if you’d care to join.”

“I think not, but…” Her gaze falls back to Maggie. “Should you wish to leave the pup in my care while you raise your glass, I… would not object.”

“If you promise not to steal her.” Morrigan gives him a sour look, which he takes for a _yes._ “Until later, then.”

The witch tries very hard not to look pleased, and is about as convincing as Cassandra.

Back in the hall, word has obviously spread. Cullen greets Dorian at the door, clapping his shoulder in suitably manly fashion. “You sly dog. I thought you’d blown it up for good.”

 _“_ That makes two of us, Commander.”

Seth is just emerging from his quarters, and is considerably startled when a gleeful Josephine flings herself into his arms, hugging him with such reckless abandon that Leliana starts laughing. “Have pity, Josie! His ribs!” He is indeed wincing, but laughing too, and turning a little pink at this unexpected attention.

Vivienne is there too, and she saunters up to Dorian, wine glass in hand. “You are the toast of the town, my dear,” she says. “Well played.”

“A victory owing more to luck than cunning, I will confess.”

“Indeed,” she says. “And you would do well not to lose sight of that fact.” Having imparted this bit of sage advice, Madame de Fer swishes away.

Cullen watches her go with a shake of his head, but Dorian can’t even be bothered to summon a witty remark. Not today. “Come, Commander, let us drink. I’m sure Varric has something awful waiting for us.”

He’s only been gone thirty minutes or so, but the others have clearly been celebrating in his absence, and the volume has gone up considerably. Bull roars an enthusiastic greeting and pours Dorian a mug, and much toasting and back-slapping ensues. Dorian sips his drink, watching wistfully as Seth, grinning from ear to pointed ear, shows the ladies his pretty trinket. Josephine puts a hand to her breast, and even Leliana is impressed, shooting Dorian a look of grudging approval from across the room.

“He is happy,” Cole says, appearing at Dorian’s side. “He glows on the inside.”

“And sparkles on the outside,” Varric puts in, laughing. “You both do. In fact…” The dwarf gets a sly look and climbs up on his chair. “I told you once that I never change a person’s nickname, but there’s a first time for everything. Sparkler, from henceforth I declare you…” He pauses dramatically, and just for a moment, Dorian dares to hope he’ll come up with something suitably dashing. Dragonrider, perhaps, or Prince Charming.

“ _Sparkles!_ ” the dwarf declares triumphantly, and the others laugh.

It ends up being the celebration it should have been the night before. Seth is more relaxed than Dorian has ever seen him, smiling and laughing and deploying that dry wit for all to see. Cassandra drifts in at some point, and Harding. The Chargers migrate from the tavern, bringing the minstrel along with them, and soon the hall is filled with music. Even Morrigan puts in an appearance, though she’s largely content to observe from the fringes. It has the feel of a wedding feast, and Dorian can’t shake the sense that he’s stepped through an eluvian into another world, a world in which it’s possible for a Dalish elf and the son of a magister to live happily ever after. And really, why not? After everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve seen, surely this is not so hard to believe?

“A copper for your thoughts,” a smooth tenor murmurs in his ear, and Seth wraps his arms around Dorian from behind, hooking his chin over Dorian’s shoulder.

“I was just doing a little shopping in my head,” Dorian says. “For a new rug.”

“You can’t fool me, Dorian Pavus. You were thinking happy thoughts.”

“Was I? I’ve so little experience with it.” It’s a well-worn joke, but it feels awkward now, like a shoe that no longer fits. “Actually,” he murmurs, “I think I might be happiest man alive.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the elf says, planting a kiss on Dorian’s neck. “Because there’s still so much to do.”

“I am your humble servant, Inquisitor.” Turning, Dorian dips into a courtly bow and holds out his hand. “But in the meantime… shall we dance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end at last. This thing started as a fling and turned into a love affair, and I don't mean the plot. To the extent I had any plans at all, it was meant to be a handful of short scenes and nothing more, a little experiment with new-to-me characters. I'm not quite sure how we ended up here, but I'm glad we did. If you made it all the way to this epilogue, thanks for taking the journey with me and I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> I had Grand Plans for a sequel, a properly structured post-Trespasser fic, but I'm afraid my tank is empty. On that note -- thanks to everyone who left kudos, and an especially huge and heartfelt thanks to those who took the time to leave a comment along the way. Reader interaction is the fuel that keeps this engine running, and without you, I'm not sure I would have made it across the finish line. Thanks for laughing with me, crying with me, playing with puppies, and keeping tabs on that damn rug. It was so important to know you were out there.
> 
> Keep well, everyone.


	48. Post-script

So... I said I wasn't going to do this, and now I am, because I am an ADDICT. *sigh*

Just adding a postscript here to mention that I did start that post-Trespasser fic after all. It's called _In Setheneras_ , and you can find it here. <https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341776/chapters/58695313>

Summary below. Stop by and say hi, if you feel so inclined!

Four years after the Exalted Council, Dorian Pavus is finally coming into his own as a magister, and learning to live without the love he somehow lost along the way. But when Inquisitor Lavellan disappears while investigating a mysterious criminal network, Dorian finds himself caught up a conspiracy darker than anything he could have imagined. Now it’s up to him to save the man he loves – oh, and the rest of the world too, if it’s not too much trouble.


	49. Post-post-script

Just dropping a line to say there's more Dorian & Seth coming your way, albeit intermittently. You can find The Spaces After here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069385/chapters/66093454

Stay well out there!


End file.
